Continuing On

A couple of people have objected to my deleting the blog. I think the most poignant was from Jenny in London:

“Can I urge you not to delete the blog?? It's a really lovely history of your time there so far, and Rod apart, includes many wonderful people, places and photos which all go to make up your life. You don't have to read it, but others will continue to enjoy it. Blogs are what will make up the history books of the future as fewer and fewer people put pen to paper, so these are the things that will survive. So leave it!!”

So there you have it. She makes a good point. Rod was not the story but just a chapter. Life goes on and I’m at the stage where I’m nearly done missing him and am beginning to celebrate the things that I don’t miss about our life together . One of the most difficult changes has been altering my vocabulary from “we” to “I”. (Funny, the opposite was true when we first got together.)

I learned some things about myself and what to look for (and what to look out for) in a relationship. I learned that I do not necessarily want to be a life-long single person. I also learned that a broad gap in economic status, hobbies, interests, age, life experience, communication skills and culture are not a good recipe for success. I learned that seeing someone’s potential does not mean that it is healthy to endure in the hopes that you’ll see it materialize.

But this brings about another question; where do I meet someone single (and gay) in similar circumstances? How many single gay men are retired at 47 and no longer pursuing the brass ring? How many have said, “Ok, that’s enough money, now I want a simple life.”? Clearly no one who lives in a major metropolitan city. Someone who still needs to work 60+ hours a week in order to live the “upscale – disposable income” lifestyle that is so expected of gay men.

I once received an astrology reading as a birthday gift. It was years ago, before I retired and moved to Mexico. I’d been single for about 10 years. The astrologer told me that he did not see me as a life-long single person. He went on to say that the type of person that I should be with is a real “salt of the earth” type. (This description clearly does not fit my last choice in partners.)

Where are the gay “salt of the earth” types? After my 30’s, I was never attracted to the bar scene, the circuit club scene, environments where 50 year old men dance with their shirts off as if they were still in their 20’s, taking drugs on weekends and shopping for designer clothes when they're not. Been there, done that, in my 20’s; not about to go back.

Should I leave Mexico and return to work? I think not. Not corporate America anyway. I can’t imagine ever working a nine-to-five job with limited vacation, ever again. Should I move? (This is a very small town in which to co-exist with an ex.) If so, where? Someplace else in Mexico; maybe Costa Rica or Spain? It has to be affordable on a fixed income.

Not that I’m in any hurry, mind you. I need to let the dust settle. I’m done with relationships for some time and plan on working on myself. I started this adventure with a couple of goals in mind. Between the death of my parents and starting a new relationship, I was totally side tracked. I seem to remember that writing and learning a new language were the original goals.

Back on track now, I think. Or soon anyway. In the mean time, I’m planning to visit dear friends in Tennessee for Christmas and then go explore someplace new in Mexico for a month or so. I think getting away will allow my head and my heart to heal, and help me figure out where life’s journey is to take me next. Not someone else’s plan, but my own.

On the lighter side, I just got a fairly reasonable estimate for converting the dog house to a rather kick-ass guest house. (Some people grieve by eating or shopping, I remodel.)

The Final Chapter

Rodrigo and I are finished. If you peel away the symptoms and break it down into what was really the problem, I’d have to say the age difference.

When you’re in love, it is easy to focus on the good qualities in a person and ignore the things that don’t work; but only for a time.

I take comfort in the words of don Miguel Ruiz from The Four Agreements:

“If someone is not treating you with love and respect, it is a gift if they walk away from you. If that person doesn’t walk away, you will surely endure many years of suffering with him or her. Walking away may hurt for a while, but your heart will eventually heal. Then you can choose what you really want.”

That being said, this blog is at an end and will be deleted soon. At some point I’ll probably start another, when my head and my heart heal.

For those of you who have been with us through this process, thank you for your kind words of support.

Princess Olivia

No discernable actual royal blood, but a bit of a princess none-the-less, Alex’s younger sister came to visit (from Miami) with her Moroccan boyfriend Youseff.

“We need to drink champagne and play croquet,” she had said after her first visit to the ranchito. That evening when it was getting cool, Olivia asked, “Do you have a Patagonia that I could borrow?”

“We don’t have any Patagonia,” I said, “Would you settle for something from the Gap?”

Olivia’s birthday was to occur during this visit so Alex and I decided to put together a croquet party for the event. But Olivia had other plans and in order to incorporate both, it turned into Olivia’s birthday weekend extravaganza.

We met at Alex and Olivia’s mother’s home in centro where Olivia and Youseff had planned a roof-top dinner with the Parroquia shimmering in the background. After dinner the flamenco dancers arrived with their back-up musicians and put on an amazing performance. Afterwards, as if on queue, fireworks erupted around the Parroquia for some local celebration. It was already getting late when I had to remind everyone to save some energy as the festivities were to continue the next day.

The next morning I put the filet mignon in the oven and set about putting out chairs, a tent and setting up the bar. People looked a little haggard from the night before but once the champagne and mimosas began flowing, everyone was up for round two of the celebration.


In fact, they were SO back into the swing of things that they stayed long past comida and I had to riffle around the kitchen to figure out what we could put together for the second meal of the day. Karl came to the rescue and with some frozen shrimp, pasta with jarred pasta sauce, leftover bread and wilted leftover salad, we fed the group a far less fabulous meal than the first.

Happy birthday Olivia. We’re still recovering.

Living Will

Last night, Rodrigo and I were sitting in the living room and I said to him, "I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine, and fluids from a bottle. If that ever happens, just pull the plug."

He got up, unplugged the TV, and threw out my wine.

He can be so annoying .....

(Thanks for the joke Hank. I found it so on point that I had to apply it to myself.)

The Rainy Season

Rodrigo tries his hand at broadcasting.

The Rainy Season (2)

Ode to Christine

My first memory of Christine is at Alex’s house. (She says we met before but it was at La Cucaracha so big surprise that I don’t remember.) A group of us were helping put together a benefit for the workers at the pyramid. Christine walked in the door. “Sorry I’m late. I had to go have my poop checked.” I liked her immediately.

When we met she was a school teacher at a local bi-lingual school. Since then she has worked as an office manager, personal assistant, wedding planner, project manager and most recently, a Real Estate Agent. She has had enough of trying to scratch out a living in Mexico. Shortly she will be moving back to the states.

The truth is San Miguel is not a great place for a young person to make a living. One is never going to get ahead working for someone else. Wages are just too low. If one has sufficient capital and builds a business, there is probably still opportunity; but not as an employee.

Over the years, we have convinced many people that Christine is my daughter. Given that there are 20 years between us, it is possible. And since we are both blonds, people buy it. They are also impressed by what a modern family we are, given Christine’s great relationship with her stepmother Rodrigo.

As a bi-lingual blond attracted to Mexican men, she has left a fair share of broken hearts in her wake. One night, at La Cuca a man wanted to go home with the two of us for a three-way. It took about a nanosecond for us to say that, as close as we are, that would be beyond the scope of our relationship.

We have traveled together, laughed together, fought and cried together. We tease each other, play jokes at each other’s expense, and when drunk we solve the problems of the world. Rod and I know and love her family and when they visit, they are our extended family.

We usually see her multiple times every week and love her beyond words. Her departure will leave a hole in our lives, an emptiness that will be impossible to replace. But this is what is right for her and for her future, so we understand.

And she is taking Mario, her Mexican boyfriend with her. So she got what she came for.

Sorry Christine, but below is your payback for leaving us!

Snakes

A few minutes ago, I found Noche, or El Gatito (our Persian kitten) playing with one of these on the patio. I threw Noche into the house, grabbed an old wine box (we have a few of those lying around) and placed it in front of the snake. He went right in. I carried him to the fence and threw him over. Then I came into the house, walked over to the computer and typed in, “Photo Baby Rattlesnake” and, among many photos came this one. Same pattern; I’d swear by it. I’m a little freaked out.

(The photo isn’t very good but I didn’t have the foresight to photograph the little fella before throwing him over the fence.)

So far, Noche seems fine.

Paul Potts singing Opera

Nothing to do with Mexico, but everything to do with following your dreams.

San Luis Potosi

About 2 hours from San Miguel de Allende, is a city of about a million people called San Luis Potosi. Mark and Victor moved there approximately six months ago and are nearly finished remodeling their new house (which they bought for a song compared to San Miguel).

“The city is so clean you can eat off the streets . . .” Mark kept telling us. Intrigued by their stories and haunted by their invitations, Christine, Mario, Rodrigo and I set out for an overnight trip. (We also had Victor to guide us since he had taken the bus to San Miguel a few days prior.)

When we arrived, Mark gave us a tour of their modest five bedroom home, including hardwood floors (how I miss those), enormous walk-in closets, beveled glass sliding doors, a modern kitchen to kill for, a garage and a separate entrance where Victor intends to open a café/gallery; all this walking distance to the historic center.

I begrudgingly put down Griselda, their eight week old Chihuahua, and we set out for dinner. We had been told that San Luis has scored number three in the world as a “City of Lights” (behind Paris and Prague) because of the way they illuminate their historic district at night. In addition, it has to be the cleanest Mexican city that I have ever visited.

We had a delightful dinner at a restaurant called Apicus http://www.apikus.com/, overlooking the square. As we were leaving it began to rain. We darted into a local gay bar (unlike San Miguel, San Luis has several gay bars) where an extremely young crowd was gathered. So young, in fact, that I began to feel a bit like a chaperone. So after we consumed the free beverages that were included with our cover charge, we departed for our second venue. By this time we had to jump small rivers to get into taxis.

(Apparently, back in San Miguel, it was raining as well, because Christine received a call from one of her co-workers. He had borrowed his boss’s daughter’s car and the water level in town had risen so high that the car was beginning to float down Canal Street.)

Mark & Victor

Me & Strippers

Wherever we went, Christine, Mark and I were the only gringos. It was really endearing when I would order in Spanish and the waiters would respond in English, apparently eager to practice. “How’s my English?” one waiter asked me. “Better than my Spanish.”

It was still raining when we left at 4:00 AM. Declining Mark’s offer to take us to yet another venue, we couldn’t find taxis to take us home. “It’s only about five blocks,” Mark said. I didn’t count but those seemed an awfully long five blocks at 4:00 in the morning in the rain.

Mario & Griselda (after running in the rain)

The next day we walked to a breakfast place in an old mansion and later, while Christine was getting a pedicure, we briefly walked the neighborhood. We had a late lunch at a wonderful Sushi restaurant, where the floor was Plexiglas over a goldfish pond. (How traumatic that must be for the goldfish, constantly thinking, “I could be next.”)

Rodrigo and I at the park near Mark & Victor's home

Barely resisting the urge to pack Griselda in our overnight bag, we left for the Casino on our way out of town. Mark has won over $30,000 USD playing the slots since moving to San Luis. We were not so lucky and hit the road after sinking a few hundred pesos each.

The rains have continued daily, usually in the evenings. The grass is growing faster than the gardener can cut it. Two places on the road to our property are either covered by mud or a moving stream, and our poor maid walks to work. She told me that while we were gone, she had to wade through the stream to get to work, and her pants got wet to just below the knee. Since we were not home she removed her pants and worked the rest of the day with a towel around her waist. So off we went to the store where I bought her some rubber “botas”. She is sporting them with pride.

Pet Recycling

Rodrigo received a call from our friend Pablo who lives in Queretaro, about 45 minutes from San Miguel de Allende. Pablo was contacted because the owner of a 1-year-old female Great Dane is dying from cancer and his children don’t want the dog. They told Pablo that if he didn’t find a home for her in one week, they were putting her down. “Bring her here,” Rodrigo said, “We’ll find a home for her.”
Her name is Doris and we’d had her little more than 24 hours when Cynthia came up to drop off a movie. For some time now, we’ve been introducing various dogs and cats to Cynthia, encouraging her to become a pet owner. Most of these were small and cute. As a joke, Rodrigo pointed to Doris and said, “We have a present for you.”

“I want her,” said Cynthia, “She’s magnificent.”

We were delighted and Cynthia took her home that night.

Maybe I’ll get Cynthia to write a guest piece for this blog because her stories about getting Doris in and out of the car and teaching her to walk up and down stairs are pretty comical.

Here at the Ranchito, we’re down to five dogs. Rodrigo gave Saru, the Affen Pinscher, away because he was not show-dog quality and I had set the limit at six dogs. Now he believes that he can get another. I imagine that the negotiations will heat up once he finds a dog that he wants.

Last night Rodrigo looked out the back window and saw a strange bird eating the grass seed that I had put out. We see birds all the time and this spring we’ve had our share of babies that have fallen out of nests. And then there are always the parts of birds that our cat Tisha leaves as gifts on our patio. This bird didn’t look like any we’ve seen before.

Rod went outside and upon closer inspection, discovered that it was an Australian parakeet that was missing tail feathers. I’m not really comfortable with keeping birds in cages but he has no possibility of surviving in the wild or for that matter, surviving Tisha.

So the count is now: five dogs, two cats, about 15 gold fish and koi (in the pond), and a parakeet.

The New Barbeque

You may remember this photo from the Collapsible Barbeque entry.

This is the new one.

Casa Escuela

The ranch, La Cañada de la Virgen (see previous posts and link), is an enormous property about an hour and a half from San Miguel, and it has been very much part of my life since moving here and meeting the family.

Among other things, La Cañada de la Virgen is a working cattle and horse ranch with real cowboys (some of whom are rather hot if one is into cowboys). There is no electricity on the ranch, it is difficult to haul propane out there and consequently, life is rather primitive. Alex’s family does not live on the ranch. He and his mother live in town and his sisters elsewhere in the world. However, they do have rooms adjacent to the caretaker’s quarters, called Casa Chica, for those occasions when they chose to spend a night or two.

The caretaker, Pedro, and his wife, Elena, are up to 8 children and there are countless dogs, cats, chickens and turkeys running around the common areas. To afford herself some privacy and escape from the commotion, Alex’s mother Regina had a small house built for herself on the other side of the river, away from the ex-hacienda ruin and caretaker’s home, on the site of the old school house; i.e., “Casa Escuela”. Alex is putting the finishing touches on the place, including a solar hot water heater and enough photovoltaic electricity to operate a couple of light bulbs. He asked me to help with the landscaping and setting up the furniture, and to spend the night so we could check out the infrastructure of the place; like does the solar hot water heater work and will it last through two showers.

The morning of our departure we met at a nursery to pick out plants. We debated over various varieties (“That takes too much water, that won’t survive the sun . . .") and at points argued like an old married couple. (I should mention that Alex is one of my straight friends.) I think the proprietor was amused.

Both cars were filled to capacity, mine with plants, Alex’s with tools, food and supplies.

Upon arrival we set to work unloading and moving plants around, trying to decide where they should go. We were smart enough to clean out a bedroom and set up single beds so that we could crash when we ran out of energy. It had not rained in months so the ground was as hard as rock in many places. We worked our asses off. I don’t think I’ve ever worked that hard on my own home.

Exhausted, we carried a cooler over to Casa Chica where Elena had prepared us dinner. We ate outside and were served by one of Elena’s daughters, a shy pretty girl who could barely look me in the eye, even though I’ve met her on countless occasions.

I’m accustomed to having all the dogs around while we eat. They don’t beg, per se, but lie close by in case we get sloppy and drop something. What was new to me was the turkey. He walked over, stood next to me and didn’t take his eyes off my plate the entire meal. We were eating chicken so I wondered if he’d had a bad run-in with a chicken and this eating it thing rather appealed to him. Whatever, his beady black eyes were slightly unnerving. If I pointed my finger at his head, like I was going to poke him or something, he simply puffed up his feathers and sat down, his eyes never wavering. A begging turkey; a first for me.


After the meal the blood rushed to my stomach and I thought that I was going to fall asleep in my plate. Alex arranged for a couple of guys to help us move furniture the next day at about 1:00 PM, and then set off to check on the new well-water system. I picked up the cooler and headed back to Casa Escuela.

As I stumbled back I had to pass a rather large bull who was eyeing me curiously. I then became aware that the cooler that I was carrying was bright red. I avoided eye contact and stepped up my pace.

Back at Casa Escuela we opened the wine and summoned the energy to dig a fire pit and build a fire. About 1:00 in the morning we staggered off to bed.

I awoke the next morning about 10:00 AM, with a splitting headache, and walked out of the bedroom to find a cigarette. I stepped over the threshold and looked up. Staring back at me were two young men and about five small children. There I was, in my pajamas, hair sticking up, eyes undoubtedly red, facing a small audience. “Buenos dias,” I said.

“Buenos dias” they replied.

I talked to the young men and was able to glean that they had come early to help with the furniture because they needed to be elsewhere on the ranch that afternoon. I went to inform Alex.

“How long have they been waiting?” he asked.

“I don’t have a clue. What I don’t get is what the kids are doing here.”

“They’re probably bored and wondering what the heck we’re doing. That is totally not cool. What if my mother was here and walked out of her room in her nightgown? She would not be happy.”

Alex got dressed and went out to tell the young men to meet us as Casa Chica in 20 minutes.

We turned Casa Chica upside down. It had been my idea to turn one of the bedrooms into the living room and to turn the living room into a dining room. Alex also wanted to rearrange all three of the bedrooms. Where we had problems was with the size of the furniture and how to configure it in each of the rooms. The poor young men were hauling stuff back and forth and we’d have to stop them time and time again and re-think our design.

We finally figured it out and sent the men off. (They were terribly good sports.)

Back at Casa Escuela we set up Regina’s bedroom and dressed her bed. I took a king coyote pelt and curled it up in the center of the bed to look like a sleeping dog.

As we drove off I had to wonder what these ranch people say about us after we’ve gone. These gringos who have only a remedial grasp of the language and tend to butcher what little they speak. Guys who stay up long after the sun goes down and sleep well after it has risen. Guys who decorate rooms and plant gardens. Guys who are unnerved by a begging turkey.

A week later my cell phone rang. It was Regina who was positively gushing about our work. She is even leaving the coyote pelt on the bed. Her enthusiasm made it all worth while.

Alex and I spent the day in Queretaro yesterday, shopping for things for Casa Escuela. This week it is being painted and the floors sealed. We lost some of our plants to leaf-cutter ants and will need to replace them. Next we tackle the kitchen and living room.

Pork Loin in Mango Salsa

I’ve decided to broaden the scope of the blog a little, and include Mexican recipes that you may not find elsewhere. (There is some risk as I will be doing the translation myself.)

The most common use of pork, in this region, is to cook the whole pig, chop it all up, and serve it in tacos. The dish is called “carnitas”. They’re tasty but if you ask me, a waste of good loin meat.

When we began preparing this pork loin dish (from the state of Michoacán), the butcher asked our maid what she was doing with this particular cut of meat. When she explained, the butcher asked her for the recipe.

One day before:

1 ½ lb pork loin
½ medium onion
1 clove of garlic, peeled
½ cup of white wine
¼ cup Worcestershire sauce
Salt & pepper to taste
2 tablespoons cooking oil

Place the onion, garlic, white wine and Worcestershire sauce in a blender or food processor, and puree.

Poor over the pork loin and refrigerate in a covered container, overnight.

The next day:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a fry pan, brown the loin on all sides in oil and then place in roasting pan (NOT on a rack). Roast for 35 minutes. Meanwhile, prepare the salsa (see below). (If loin appears to be drying out, add a little white wine or water to the pan.) Remove the loin from the oven and spoon a light layer of the mango salsa (which you should have ready by now) over the loin, and return to oven for 10 minutes more.

For the salsa:

2 fresh mangos (this doesn’t really work well with frozen mangos)
1 tomato, peeled, seeded and chopped
1 green chili (a serrano chili is what we use but you may want to start with half a chili and be sure to remove the seeds)
Juice of one small lime
1 tablespoon of honey
1/3 of an onion, chopped
Salt & pepper to taste

Place all ingredients, except salt & pepper, in a blender or food processor and puree. Empty liquid into a pot and bring to a boil. Let simmer for five minutes. Season to taste.

Slice pork loin and place on plate. Spoon a small amount of the mango salsa over and enjoy.

(Serves 4)

A Marriage of Challenge

I’m going to perpetrate a local rumor that has been represented as fact.

Maria de Jesus, Christine’s maid, is a woman in her 60’s. Not a particularly attractive woman, and from a poor family, she married late for a Mexican woman, probably in her 30’s.

Maria de Jesus had heard, from her sisters and friends, about the act of sex and was intrigued. On her wedding night she shivered in anticipation. But nothing happened. Not that night or any of the nights to follow.

Maria de Jesus settled into married life without the carnal benefits. After two years of performing the role of wife and housekeeper, she began to wonder. What was missing? Clearly the role of motherhood. And, as she understood, sex was required before one could become a mother.

She finally rallied her nerve and approached her husband with the subject. He begrudgingly explained to her that sex was not an option because he did not have a penis. When he was a small boy, he was bitten on his penis, by a spider. The site became infected and inflamed and subsequently, his penis had to be removed.

Given that he had not disclosed this prior to marriage, Maria de Jesus approached the Catholic Church and promptly had the marriage annulled.

There was a movie made in the U.S., called “The 40-Year-Old Virgin”. The lead character was male. Rumor has it; Maria de Jesus might be able to top his story. Or at least surpass his timeline.

Semana Santa

Semana Santa or Holy Week (ie., Easter) began the onslaught of house guests, visitors and events. The events included dinners, parties, and sightseeing. It didn’t stop at Semana Santa but continued for weeks thereafter.

One set of guests included one of Rodrigo’s gay cousins (there are several) and his partner. Both in their 30’s, they were bilingual and health nuts. (Also extremely well traveled, as I could hardly mention a country where they had not been.) Rod’s cousin went for a 17 kilometer jog while his partner alternated between an ab-roller and free weights on the back patio. They prepared protein shakes and made us enormous breakfasts. They spent most of their time wearing not much more than workout shorts (something our maid seemed to enjoy). We took them to a party and Rod’s cousin pulled out his guitar and sang. Our hosts approached me and said, “You not only brought the hottest guys to the party but the entertainment as well!” They were wonderful house guests who, being from Mexico City seemed to enjoy just soaking up the country life.

Christine’s landlord, Robin from Arlington Texas, decided to visit his house in San Miguel on short notice, and it happened to be the same weekend that Christine had out-of-town guests. So I offered our guestroom since we know him well and like him very much. The same weekend our friend Christian called from Mexico City and asked if he and a friend could stay. I said yes and after Christian left, his friend lingered with apparent interest in Robin. They split the bill for a very expensive comida as a thank you to Rodrigo and me. Christian was mortified when he found out that his friend had spent another night here after he (Christian) had left for Mexico City. “Get over it,” I said, “He made a nice playmate for Robin. And he bought us lunch at La Landetta!”

Karen and Bob came to their beautiful vacation home here, with Bob’s sisters and their spouses, and seemed to be gone before we had the opportunity to spend much time with them. Fortunately, they return frequently.

Shortly thereafter, Robert, Rudy and Rudy’s mother, Rita, came and stayed at Bob and Karen’s house. They seemed to be gone in a flash as well, but not before we were able to have them over for dinner. Since Rodrigo has started his business, he has felt that he is losing touch with his spiritual side. He and Rita spent some time together discussing the subject and Rodrigo came away saying, “I feel like someone sent me an angel.”

Then another gay cousin of Rod’s (Abram, one of the gay twins) came to visit with his new boyfriend. This cousin has been living in Canada, speaks Spanish, English and French perfectly, and is only in his early 20’s. He was part of the first gay marriage in Canada and the first gay divorce. (Both he and his identical twin are gay so if there are any questions about genetic pre-disposition about being gay, this should help to settle them. This is the second set of identical twins where I have found this to be true.)

Rodrigo’s cousin Abram (right) and his new boyfriend Juan Manuel. The only physical difference between Abram and his twin Moises is the scar above his right eyebrow.

Abram now works for an internet trouble shooting hotline in Mexico City and told a story about helping a rather remedial customer.

During the call, Abram asked the client, “How many windows do you have open?” “A lot,” was the client’s response. “Ok,” Abram said, “You need to close them all so we can diagnose the problem.” Then the client seemed to disappear for five minutes. The line was open so Abram couldn’t hang up. He kept saying, “Hello?” with no response but he could hear background noise.
I think you get it by now. The client didn’t understand that Abram was talking about browser windows and ran around his house closing all the real windows.

In general I’m very happy about one thing in particular. In the past it was usually my friends who were coming to visit. I’m glad to have more visits from Rodrigo’s family members and have the opportunity to get to know them better. It is, after all, a huge family and if I am to be part of it, it is nice to know the players. It should make the next family Christmas even easier and more enjoyable than the last. It also stretches my Spanish skills. I need this very much.

There is so much about living in another country and culture that one misses when one is not fluent in the native language. I need to get back to school. Living with a bilingual native is not much help. If I ask him a question in Spanish he answers in English. I guess he programs himself. ("I speak English to this person and Spanish to that.")

What I Don’t Like

I’ve written a great deal about aspects of living in Mexico, that I find wonderful or interesting. However, in the spirit of providing a balanced report, it is only proper that I also describe the things that are not so great. Some of these are specific to living in Mexico. Others relate to the difference between city and country life.

Litter

It baffles me how little respect so many can have for the environment. This is probably my biggest peeve. Garbage service is free (although I’m not sure that it is provided to the people out in the campo) yet vacant lots and roadsides are strewn with debris. Most of it non-biodegradable plastic and glass bottles and snack wrappers. A favorite place to through trash seems to be rivers and creeks. Recycling has yet to arrive and it is so desperately needed.

Service Failure

If you are unable to provide a service, or merely unwilling for whatever reason (maybe the job is too small), tell me. I’ll find someone else. Apparently it is rude to tell someone “no” in this culture. It is more acceptable to say “yes” and then never follow-through or show up. Also, if you can’t make an appointment or are going to be late, CALL. Don’t just show up some other day or time and expect me to be available.

Driving

In town is not bad. Even though one may need to drive up on the sidewalk and fold in a mirror in order to pass another vehicle on a narrow cobblestone street, no one is going very fast so it is not that bad. However, surprise potholes on highways are scary. So is a lane being resurfaced that is several inches lower than the other lane and there are no warning signs. Slow moving trucks can make you slam on your brakes when you round a curve and then worry that someone is going to hit you from behind; because if you’re not a slow moving truck, you’re probably moving well above the speed limit. For a people who are known for being “laid back”, why are they in such a hurry when they get behind the wheel of a car?

Water Issues

A quarter inch line is not sufficient to supply water to four properties. If a hose is turned on in one part of the yard, turning another on will completely eliminate the pressure from both. Sprinklers will not operate. My workers, gardener and maid are competing for water. I just leave the property and think, “Let them work it out together.”

And the water is so full of lime that it stains the sinks, toilets and fountains. I went out and bought these fancy designer sinks with special surfaces that can only be cleaned with mild or neutral cleaners. As a result, our sinks look dirty all the time. To scrub the lime off would be to remove the special patina. (The next time I will only buy regular white porcelain sinks and chrome fixtures that can be scrubbed with the scrubby side of a sponge or soft steel wool.)

Cost for Certain Comforts

Decent clothes, electronics and comfortable furniture are imported, therefore subject to import tax and nearly twice as expensive here. We wait to buy these things when we go to the states or have them made. (Being patient and having things made can save one a bundle.)

Electricity

Or a lack thereof. The electric company here is rumored to be bankrupt. Solar is prohibitively expensive (because the materials are imported). We’re paying nearly $300 USD per month in electric bills for a two person home. (We are not negligent energy users.) And after a big storm (or for no apparent reason) we can be days with a brown-out or a complete blackout. This complaint is not unique to us. There have been protests at the electric company offices. How can a poor Mexican family be expected to pay these prices?

There are other issues but they exist in the states as well. Maybe just a little more so here. Poverty, animal abuse or population control issues, smog (not so much in San Miguel but in the big cities), dry dusty summers and petty crime.

I miss central heat two months of the year. I miss wood construction of homes (they are how I was raised and seem warmer to me).

Preferring not to end on a negative note, I’ll reiterate some of the things that I love:

I love being able to afford a maid and gardener.

I love waking up to blue skies and temperatures above 70 degrees Fahrenheit 300 days of the year.

I love the family culture.

I love good, cheap Mexican food.

I love paying $10 for a haircut and $45 for a massage.

I love living in a big open space and wild flowers during the rainy season.

I love not having a mortgage or paying rent.

I love low property taxes (i.e., $300 USD a year).

I love not working.

I love my friends and “alternative family” that I’ve met here, as well as the diversity that this town offers.

Firing Jesus

Jesus, our new gardener, showed up one Monday looking like he either had been up all night or was drunk. However, to my surprise, he had some woman with him and they decided to have a little picnic at the stone table in the back yard. Later I was sitting at the computer and out the window I say him hurl an empty plastic soda bottle into the vacant lot next door. (I made him go pick it up and put it in the garbage.)

It seemed to me, that after only four days of service, bringing your girlfriend to your new job for a picnic reflects very poor judgment. (If his judgment is so bad this early in his employment history, what other mistakes might he make?) And deliberately littering non-biodegradable products makes my skin crawl.

Wednesday morning Rodrigo was getting ready to leave for work. “Don’t leave before we fire the gardener,” I said, “I may need your help.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I’ve never fired anyone before.”

“This will be good practice. I’ll do it but if he argues or something I’ll need your help with the language.”

“I have a pit at the bottom of my stomach. Don’t you?”

“The first time I fired someone I cried afterwards. After a 100 people or so, you get used to it. Help me write out a script in Spanish and I’ll read it. Just something like, “We’ve discussed it and your services are no longer required.” We don’t want to provide a lot of details because those just become potential points of argument.”

So Rod wrote out a note and we took it to the back yard where Jesus was on his knees pulling weeds. “Jesus,” I said, “Lo hemos pensado y ya no te necesitamos. Gracias por tu servicio. No necesitas terminar lo de hoy.”

Jesus looked shocked but acknowledged that he understood. Rod made a beeline for his car and left for work. I went back into the house.

A few minutes later Maria came into the house and told me that Jesus wanted to talk to me. He wanted to apologize for bringing his wife to work. He didn’t realize that I would be so offended.

I had no desire to discuss anything with him. My decision was made, he needed to leave. If he wanted to talk to someone he could talk to Human Resources. But wait, I don’t have a Human Resources department anymore. So I called my friend Andrea who has experience with these things. Andrea graciously agreed to speak with him so I had Maria take him the phone. A few minutes later he left.

After Jesus was gone I took over his chores. This time of year it is all about watering. We have very limited water pressure so watering involves dragging hoses and buckets all over the two acre property, in the blazing sun. My desire to green-up the property has created a watering nightmare this time of year. (The rainy season starts in June and I can hardly wait.)

After a couple of hours Maria came across the yard with the phone. “Rodrigo,” she said, and I took the phone from her.

“Hi,” he said. “I’ve been trying to call you. Where have you been?”

“Out in the yard, watering. My cell phone is charging so I don’t have it with me.”

“Well, I’ve been trying to reach you. When I came back to the clinic after picking up some dogs, I came around the corner and Jesus’ car was parked in front of the clinic. I drove really slow hoping that he would leave but he didn’t. He wanted to apologize for bringing his wife to the property and explained that she was helping him. He didn’t think that you would mind because you didn’t say anything when his son was helping him the week before. He also said that you probably thought that he was drunk but he doesn’t drink. He says you can call anyone that he has worked for and they will tell you that he is a good worker.”

“I didn’t have a problem with his son because it was semana santa (holy week) and kids were out of school. But there was no reason for his wife or girlfriend or whoever she was, to be there. You don’t bring a stranger to our home without our permission. Plus, that thing with throwing the bottle over the fence. My decision is made and I’m not inclined to reconsider.”

“I don’t think that he wants his job back. He just wants to make sure his reputation is not damaged.”

“Well we’re not going to bad mouth him to any potential employers.”

“That’s what I told him.”

In defense of Jesus, he drives a taxi on weekends and there is a possibility that he hadn’t slept. In retrospect, he probably enjoyed the job, working with the earth rather than being stuck in a taxi dealing with tourists in 12 hours shifts. He has two young children and however small was the extra income, it probably helped.

I feel torn. Was I too hasty? Had he been a long time employee and he’d made these mistakes, I would have discussed and forgiven them. However, it seemed a warning sign when it happened after such a short time. Then I wonder if I’ve committed a cultural blunder. I doubt in a Mexican corporation that it is acceptable to bring family members to work without notice. But in small businesses and little shops it is probably common. Andrea assures me that it was the right thing to do. But I do wonder.

Gladys Hardy on Ellen

Again, nothing to do with the blog; just entertainment.

Wine Tasting

Mexico has not, until recently, had a wine culture. Decent wine was difficult to fine, was imported and expensive.

Wino that I am, this proved to be a challenge when I first arrived. Then I discovered the Argentinean and Chilean imports that were very drinkable and reasonably priced. I was saved.

But things are changing. Apparently Mexico has been producing wines out of Baja California for some time now and people are beginning to step up and take notice. This could not have been more evidenced than by the Celebration of Mexican Wines event held last weekend at Hacienda Las Trancas.

When my niece sent me information about the event, I immediately wanted to attend. I sent an email out to the gang to see if it peaked anyone else’s interest and all were non-responsive except Christine. She was in. So a week before the event I asked her to pick up tickets for us, since the sales office was close to her office. She called after to say that she’d gotten the last available tickets.

As the event approached, my other friends began to respond with interest. “Too late,” I had to tell them. Some tried anyway and were unsuccessful.

In addition to the wine tasting, the venue appealed to me as well. Hacienda Las Trancas is 40,000 square feet with 50 rooms under one roof (many still in need of renovation), set on 10 acres. It is about an hour from San Miguel de Allende. (I highly recommend that you visit their website and read the story of the gringo couple who are bringing this place back to life. If nothing else, check out the photos.) I had visited once before and was extremely impressed with the place and what the owners are accomplishing.

The tickets included bus transportation but we decided to drive in case we wanted to depart before the busses were scheduled to leave. Rodrigo, Christine and her Match.com date Mario, and I arrived a few minutes before the event was to begin. Tuxedoed waiters were still frantically setting up. Kellie, the owner, met us at the entrance. “This is Mexico,” she said, “Why are you here on time?”

We were handed our glasses at the entrance and ventured into the enormous courtyard where tables were set up representing each of the wineries. As we tasted, we were able to wander through many of the impressive guestrooms, the gardens, stables, swimming pool area and a gym that makes anything in San Miguel look shabby. Then the busses began to arrive. Hundreds of gringos and well-to-do Mexicans poured into the Hacienda.

Each of the tables had bowls of tiny pieces of bread to clean your palate between tastes. At the entrance table a dog was eyeing the bowl and wagging his tail expectantly. A few minutes later I saw Kelley, in her beautiful black cocktail dress, scoop up the dog and carry him out of the Hacienda.

As the crowd thickened, waiters began to serve a variety of exotic and tasty appetizers. Always looking out for our vegetarian friend Christine, I asked what was in the little round balls that one of the waiters was serving. In Spanish, he told me that it was cheese and tuna. Biting into it I found that it was indeed cheese but also some kind of shredded beef. “Don’t eat those,” I told Christine. Later we found wonderful ceviche stuffed cucumbers that Christine was able to consume.

The event began at 6:00 PM, which, when you think about it, is early-bird special time for the retired crowd. These types began to close in on the dinning room and waiters could barely clear the doorway before little age-spotted hands cleared their serving trays.

All in all, I was very impressed with the event, and especially with the wines. We left around 7:30 but heard that the first bus was not scheduled to leave until 9:30. Had we taken a bus, we would have been very drunk and hungry by 9:30

Vineyards are beginning to pop up around San Miguel. I couldn’t be happier and do my best every night to support the industry.

Household Staff

One of the big adjustments of living in Mexico, is having staff.

I was not raised with staff. My mother made her own clothes and we switched from ice cream bars to ice cream in a carton because it was cheaper. We went from a Chevy Impala to a Chevy Vega because gas prices rose to nearly $0.50 per gallon (now my age is showing). My toys were old sets of keys and broken telephones. Was I happy? Yes, I was. We were country folk and I didn’t know any better and didn’t envy anyone.

Now I’m country folk again. However, I have a full-time maid and a part-time gardener.

I had difficulty, at first, having someone around the house all the time. I didn’t really want a full-time maid, part-time seemed good enough to me; even a luxury. However, with six dogs and two cats, it began to seem necessary. Plus, Maria was my father’s primary care-giver and she was turning down other full-time job offers because she wanted to work for us. (Whether this is true or a slight manipulation I’ll never know.)

We’re blessed. Maria is a person who always has a smile on her face. Her demeanor is constantly positive. She believes that life is too short to be unhappy. She is the same age as me and has a 30 year-old son, her father has dementia. She has over 150 relatives who live in and around San Miguel de Allende. If I need something fixed, or hauled away or repaired, she can usually call a family member and it is done. She and her 11 year-old son, housesit for us when we travel.

Maria arrives at 8:00 AM and peels me a fresh grapefruit which she leaves in the kitchen. Then she lets the dogs out of their crates and cleans the pee and poo from their patio. When she’s done, if we’re not awake, she washes our cars so as not to disturb us inside the house. If we want something special for breakfast, other than cereal, it is prepared in a heartbeat.

Maria is a stealth maid. She somehow manages to know what room you’re going to be in when and is always in another. She does our laundry, irons like no tomorrow and I’ve taught her to polish the silver. She helps me chase snakes and wasps off the front porch. She reminds me every year when it is the day that my father died. She tells me when a bird is trapped inside the front gate light and we need to set it free.

I’ve learned that one cannot assume. My friend Toby and his girlfriend Yvonne, brought us a beautiful cashmere blanket from Vienna when they came to visit. While we were away, Maria thought she’d wash it for us. It shrank to about the size of a napkin so she and the gardener thought they’d try to stretch it out. It now has a very interesting shape and not nearly the old texture. Subsequently we’ve taught her to read labels and have a separate space for our dry clean only items.

Rod and I have a ritual when we travel. We buy cooking magazines in Spanish and read the recipes. When we find something that sounds good we give it to Maria to cook for our main meal (comida) of the day. She is becoming an excellent cook and has branched out from Mexican food and now prepares a lovely Thai peanut pork thingy. When we have parties, she pulls in a couple of sisters and has cooked for up to 80 people for a fraction of the price of hiring caterers. (Guests have commented that it was the best traditional Mexican food that they’ve ever eaten.)

So when our gardener resigned (no great loss), Maria and I discussed the possibility of hiring a young, handsome man, who is fond of working with his shirt off. I gave the hiring assignment to Rodrigo who subsequently hired his assistant’s father who is as old as the hills and has no front teeth. Lesson learned. (However he is supposed to be some kind of “plant whisperer” and so far, is doing a great job.)

For reference, Maria earns less than $120 USD per week. The gardener, about $50 USD per week. I’m losing my cooking skills and when the house is a mess, I think, “It’s ok. Maria will be here tomorrow.” For an obsessive – compulsive like me, change is not always a bad thing.

Tiny Weenie

I’ve been getting my haircut at the same shop for about four years. It is a little more expensive than other shops, at $100 pesos (a little less than $10 USD), but Juan keeps a clean shop and is an interesting guy. He’s a skinny thing, with long braids down to his waist. He was a philosophy major but could make any money philosophizing so he does hair. His wife just had their second child.

Every haircut is a combination English/Spanish lesson as we are about on par with our language skills. This week I had just settled into the chair when he asked me, “Que significa “Tiny Weenie?””

I was a bit stunned as I hesitated, thinking, “Poor guy. I hope no one said that to him.” When I explained it was a small penis (“Pene chiquito”) he started laughing. Then we got into discussion and maybe what he heard was “Teeny weenie” which could mean anything small. (I couldn’t come up with the vocabulary to ask him where he had heard this expression.) “Que significa “weenie?”” he asked.

“Como hot dog” I replied.

“Salchicha?” (The Spanish, or at least Mexican, word for the kind of meat we call hot dogs.)

“Exacto”

(I should mention that “pene”, which means “penis” in Spanish, is pronounced exactly the same way as one would pronounce “penne pasta.” So if you are in Mexico, at an Italian restaurant, and you order the “pasta penne” and your waiter smiles slightly, understand that to him it sounds like you just ordered “penis pasta.”)

Whether the “Tiny weenie” conversation proved to be a segue for the next conversation I’ll never know, but he went on to say that he’d heard that gay marriage is now legal in Mexico City and he thought it was very good and a progressive thing for the country. With that I’ll close with a piece about gay marriage that my friend Andrew found somewhere on the internet:

1) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.

2) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

3) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.

4) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.

5) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Britney Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage and our 50% divorce rate would be destroyed.

6) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.

7) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

8) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.

9) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.

10) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

11) Gay Marriage will destabilize the family. This same argument was used against numerous changes including women leaving the home for the workplace, interracial marriages, and dancing.

White Guy

One of the cultural differences that I have come to experience here is the reference to or about someone by their physical appearance. For example, frequently someone will call out to me, “Oye! Guerro!” or “Hey there! Blond guy! (Or “White Guy!”) Never in the states would I think about referencing someone’s skin color. But here it is not reserved for gringos but can be used with light skinned Mexicans as well.

There is a designer in town named “Negro” or “Black”. I can’t even bring myself to call him by his name. I just say “Hola” and omit his name altogether.

Another is “Gordo” or “Gorda”. That seems like “Fatty” or “Fatso”. Never would I refer to someone by their weight. However, here it is a term of endearment. Husbands and wives will use it like we’d use “Honey” or “Sweetheart” or when talking to their children.

“Pelon” or “Bald guy” is another. If one didn’t understand the cultural difference, one could easily be offended.

“Joven” or “Young man” is what one calls a waiter in a restaurant, regardless of his age. I was flattered when a woman behind the deli counter called me “Joven.” That was until I saw a 60-something year old man climb into a taxi and call the 60-something year old cab driver “Joven.”

And if you’re an attractive woman, you’re going to get cat calls and whistles. You can be offended if you want, but I believe my 27-year-old friend Christine has the right attitude for living in Mexico. “I’m offended if they don’t harass me.” I’ve also seen packs of high school girls give it back to an attractive man. What’s fair is fair. One of my favorite cat calls is “Tu con todas las curvas y yo sin frenos” or “You with all those curves and me with no brakes.”

And have I mentioned the abundance of “No Tell Motels”? Since Mexicans tend to live with their families until marriage, couples don’t have much opportunity for sexual encounters. (And there is always the infidelity thing which seems pretty prevalent here.) This has lead to a string of affordable motels where one can pull one’s car into a private garage where it can’t be seen. While I’ve never used one, the old tenants of my house swore by them for their cross-country trips. They said that they were cheap, clean and a great place to stay if you don’t mind a mirror above the bed and a glass shower in the center of your room. You also don’t have to worry about your car getting broken into.

In the nearby city of Leon, there is a section of the highway that is referred to as the “Bermuda Triangle”. This is because at night traffic can be very heavy at the beginning of the highway but by the end there are very few cars on the road. They disappear at the various off-ramps leading to the motels.

On Writing

Trying to motivate myself back into a routine of writing, I attended an International PEN lecture where two published authors were speaking; Janice Macdonald and Sarah Lovett. Neither are authors whom I have read but the lecture was about creating commercial fiction so I was interested.

Back in the states I attended a class on writing essays. One of the elder students kept raising her hand and asking the instructor if it was better to write by hand or on a computer or typewriter. Everything else seemed irrelevant to her, as if the writing tool is what makes a writer. Given this experience I was prepared to be annoyed.

The event was well attended and the questions from the audience on point. I was, however, slightly annoyed. There was plenty of empty seats in the theater but for some reason a large man decided to take the seat next to me. He apparently had some kind of breathing problem and made the strangest sound during the entire lecture. I felt like I was sitting next to Darth Vader. I didn’t want to be rude and turn to see what the problem was or even to get up and move to another seat. So I endured.

Sarah’s opening joke was, “What did Adam say to Eve? “Stand back, we don’t know how big this thing is going to get!”” She then went on to describe what has proven to be a very successful writing career.

I also took the step to send my children’s story manuscript to a couple of publishing houses. I figure even being rejected can be a learning experience. What have I got to lose beyond a little ego?

Valle de Bravo and The Lost Weekend

I call it the “Lost Weekend” not because it was a wasted two days, but because of the number of times that we were actually lost.

Rodrigo was asked to be the “ring’s godfather” at his assistant’s brother’s wedding in Toluca. Toluca is a big industrial city not far from Mexico City. It has little to offer tourists. It is particularly ugly. So we decided that we would travel beyond Toluca and spend the night in Valle de Bravo. Valle de Bravo is a weekend getaway for wealthy Mexico City people and sits on the edge of a large freshwater lake; one of the few freshwater lakes in Mexico that is not polluted by the town’s waste.

From San Miguel, one has to pass through Toluca to get to Valle de Bravo. Toluca is three hours from San Miguel and Valle de Bravo is another hour and a half, for a total travel time of four and a half hours. If one knows where one is going.

After getting lost and losing about two hours in Toluca, I was ready to find a hotel and bail on the whole Valle de Bravo idea. It was dark, raining and I was tired and hungry. “You’ve already paid for the hotel in Valle,” Rod said, “We can do this.”

So we took a white-knuckled night drive through the mountains and arrived in Valle de Bravo at about 10:00 PM. Seven hours from the start of our journey. The town was nearly empty and most every place was closed. Clearly it was not peak season. We did find a nice Italian Restaurant that was still serving and had a decent meal. On the way back to the car we stopped at a very sheik little bar for Martini’s. We were the only customers and spent our time chatting with the bartender, who told us how to get to our hotel on the other side of town.

Rod was driving and as I looked out the window, I thought that I recognized certain landmarks. We were driving in circles and were back at the entrance of town; the opposite side of town from our hotel. It was 1:00 in the morning.

“Find a taxi to lead us there,” I said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

So Rod spoke with a driver and asked how much. “This is going to cost us a fortune,” he said, “They’re going to discuss what they should charge.”

One of the drivers came back. “200 pesos,” he said.

Rod looked at me and I said “Fine, Si” and driver looked surprised. As if he expected me to bargain but I didn’t.

We followed him rapidly through the sleeping town and out the other side. After a few minutes on the highway, he pulled off onto a one lane dirt road and we plunged into the darkness. After five minutes of no sign of civilization I said, “I feel like we’re being taken into the woods to be robbed.”

“You can make the reservations next time,” was Rod’s response.

We finally came to a clearing and drove past a miniature golf course and up to a wood cabin that served as reception. I paid the taxi driver and Rod rang the bell. We waited another five minutes and off in the distance a man came trotting down the road. We apologized for the hour but he seemed unconcerned and politely greeted us and gave the low down on the accommodations and services.

We parked next to our cabin and I was impressed with the effective use of space and the cleanliness of our little two room cottage.

The next morning we awoke to clear skies. Outside were tall pine trees and horses grazing in green pastures. After living in high desert for so long, it felt wonderful to be in the woods.

I was anxious to get into town to see it in the daylight. Plus I wanted to leave Valle and allow enough time to get lost again in Toluca and still make the wedding on time.

Valle de Bravo has an architectural feel to it that leads me to believe it was quite a hotspot back in the 50’s and 60’s. It is still very picturesque albeit a little faded around the edges. We had breakfast at a lovely floating restaurant and fed the water fowl from our table. A woman water skied off in the distance. From our table I could see many ski boats in dry dock. We will go back for a long weekend in the future.

We took the correct route out of town and drove through fertile valleys and old pine forests. At a bend in the road I noticed what I thought were leaves falling all across the highway. Then I noticed a portable sign in the middle of the road that said to slow to 15 kilometers. That is when I realized that they were not leaves but thousands of monarch butterflies. We were driving through their winter sanctuary before they return to Canada.

I was impressed to see the other drivers obeying the speed limit. These people that usually drive like they are in a video game were showing respect for these delicate and beautiful insects.

We found a turn-off where we paid a young boy 50 pesos each for him to lead us on a five minute walk to a stream where the butterflies drink. Along the way he explained the mating and migration rituals of the Monarch. The stream where they drink was a vibrating mass of color. For me, it was a wonder of nature that made me happy to just quietly observe.

Back in Toluca we got lost immediately after entering the city limits. After one big circle I opted for our taxi strategy once again. This time it only cost us 70 pesos. We parked the car at the hotel and used taxis from thereon. As if to continue the theme of the weekend, our taxi driver got lost between the church and the reception hall.

Doc Severinsen and St. Francis

As far as I know, Doc Severinsen and St. Francis have very little in common. However, while attending the third anniversary of La Aurora, the big design and art center here, I saw Doc Severinsen walk by. (Remember him from the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson?) He has a home here and his wife has her own art gallery.

At another gallery I found, and bought, the picture you see above. It is supposed to be St. Francis of Assisi and the likeness is taken from the actor in one of my favorite movies, “Brother Sun, Sister Moon.” It is pencil on paper and it turns out that we had been introduced to the Mexican artist and his partner some time ago. I had no idea that he was so talented.

The Collapsible Barbeque

I just did a post about “always something.” And I’d really prefer that these “something’s” spaced themselves out a little further.

I was sitting at my computer when I heard some kind of crash. I thought it was probably just the neighbor dumping some sort of building materials for his never-ending projects. But then Maria came running in from the kitchen saying something about “techo”. I followed her into the kitchen where she pointed out the window and I saw what you see in the photo.

We were supposed to host a barbeque this Friday, for a friend whose parents are in town. From the looks of this, I think our barbeque hosting days are on hold for a while. If I have to look for a silver lining, thank god no one was standing under it when it came down.

Armando

Armando Camacho Guzman
1957 – 2007
Cook, Clown and Beloved Friend

Whether it was the M.S. or his diabetes wasn’t clear, but his kidneys were failing and he knew his days were numbered. The doctor said he should return to Tijuana, to his family and the health care available across the border. However, he wasn’t well enough to travel.

He didn’t answer his phone but I knew he was having mobility problems and was probably home anyway. The door to his apartment was open. “Armando?”

“I’m in here” he called from the bedroom.

I found him laid out on his bed, watching TV. “I’m just so weak I can’t move. I’m ok in the mornings. I can get up and make it to the bathroom, kind of using the walls as support. But after breakfast I don’t have any strength left.”

Despite his weakness his spirits seemed good. I lay on the bed as he told me the story of his Aunt.

“She married two Generals. My father said she killed them both. So she was getting two military pensions, good pensions. And she lived to be 100. However, no one bothered to tell the government when she passed away. We all wondered how this one cousin managed to live so well without working. When my aunt supposedly reached what would have been 110 years old, I guess the government decided that they needed to see this woman. The pensions stopped and the cousin disappeared.”

I helped him sit up in bed and propped pillows behind him. He refused my offer for anything. “I have every thing I need. Issac is coming over later and he always brings food. And it’s really good. I just hope he doesn’t bring any meat. I can’t have any protein right now.”

I kissed his little bald head. It felt smooth and cool. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Yes, stop by” he said.

We heard later that he had fallen and didn’t have the strength to get off the floor. He called Jane and she called Issac and Carlos and told them to get over there. I called and Issac answered and said the doctor was there. He would have the doctor call me when he was free. He did call and told us that he had taken Armando to his clinic. An hour later he called to say that Armando’s heart had failed.

The consolation is that it happened fast. Armando did not relish the idea of dialysis. He told me that he’d watched his father go through it and he’d quit and died rather than suffer through the process. Armando thought he would do the same.

A light went out in San Miguel last night.

We will miss your food, your stories, your candor and your humor, Armando. Rest in peace.

Always Something

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but we have somewhat of a pet cemetery at the Ranchito. If Rodrigo has to put down a dog or cat, the owners frequently don’t have the space to bury their beloved pet. For 500 pesos we’ll buy a tree and bury your pet beneath. This is a service for Rod’s clients and helps us green-up the ranchito.

I was not quite over my cold when Rod announced that we had a rather large dog to bury, one that had been put down at one of his colleague’s offices. Being it was late on Friday, we had no gardener to dig the hole. Being that I was still sick, I had no intention of helping. However, Saturday morning I did go out to buy the tree, a “pirul” or pepper tree (not pictured above, that is an olive tree) that stretched the whole length of the interior of the Pathfinder, the branches hitting me in the head as I drove home.

When I returned Rod had begun digging the hole. I pulled the car up near the site and withdrew the tree. I hesitated a moment to watch Rod’s efforts, his thin arms grasping the handle shovel. He fell a little each time he jumped on the shovel to widen the hole. Manual labor is not his strong suit and I could see the writing on the wall (or, in this case on the soil).

As I drove up to the house to unload the rest of the plants that I had purchased, it began to rain. Rod abandoned his digging and took shelter inside on the couch, where he promptly fell asleep. I took shelter in the potting shed where I planted seeds in peat moss pots in anticipation of spring planting.

The rain subsided about the same time that I finished my planting and I returned to the house. Rod told me that the other veterinarian had called, and said that the dog was beginning to smell. It was also getting late in the day and the sun was fading. “Go get the dog or we’re going to be burying it by flashlight and we’ll look like the grave diggers in “Kill Bill 2”. So off he went and I donned my gloves and set out to finish the task that he had begun, the soil now wet and heavy from the rain.

Rod returned just before sunset and we rapidly went to work, racing against the sun. Then the rain started again. No choice, we had to finish and did shortly after sunset, dripping wet and covered in mud. When we returned to the house, the power was out.

The power remained out for the next three and a half days. We alternated between brown-outs and complete black-outs. With no power we have no pressure pump and therefore no water pressure. Without power, the front gate doesn’t open by remote. And it rained and rained. Every leak in the house reappeared and we picked up a few new ones. We were cold and wet. Showers with abysmal pressure offered no relief. We had no television, music or computers to entertain ourselves. Dogs and cats were wet and smelly and left muddy footprints on the tile floors. At one point I simply yelled, “I want to go someplace where it is warm and everything works!”

Monday evening, the ranchito still in darkness, Christine came by to borrow the Pathfinder. The next day she needed to show some houses and the Pathfinder would be more comfortable for her clients than her truck. (They are wealthy gay men who have a home in Fort Lauderdale, another in Provincetown and looking for a third in San Miguel.) We had a candlelight dinner, I gave her the key and off she went.

The next morning we received a call from Christine. She was double parked outside her office and the Pathfinder would not start. (Fortunately, her morning appointment had canceled but the two men were still scheduled for 11:30.) I told her where to find the number for the repair shop and she called. I jumped in the X-Trail and headed to the bank, filled up with gas and took money to the clinic where Rod was meeting with his landlord.

Christine called my cell phone. They diagnosed the problem but couldn’t fix it on the street. The Pathfinder would need to be towed to the shop. I told her where to find the phone number for the emergency towing service provided by my insurance company and hung up. A few minutes later she called back. Since the Pathfinder is four wheel drive, they needed a special tow truck that would have to come from Celya, an hour away. “Fine,” I said, “I’ll pick up you and your clients and be your driver.”

Being there is no parking in downtown, I drove in circles until Christine’s clients arrived at her office. She called my cell phone and I met them on the corner. As she climbed into the car, Christine said, “The first tow truck from Celya got in an accident so they had to send another. It will be here in an hour or two. But your car is not blocking any other cars now. I’ve told the Transito officer so you won’t get a ticket and my office staff is watching out for the tow truck.”

(We looked at houses in the $500,000 to $750,000 USD range and while they were all big, only one out of four would be anything I would consider. And of course it was the most expensive.)

Our power is back and the Pathfinder has a new starter. It has stopped raining and I’ve met with the architect who built our house and he is going to get me an estimate for a roof up-grade that includes insulation and skylights. I am nearly over my cold.

I’m reminded of stories where gringos are driven back to the states, frustrated by the inconsistent infrastructure in Mexico. This week I could relate.

Zihuatanejo

Robert and Rudy have an 80 year old friend named Edye, who has been vacationing in Zihuatanejo every year for over 17 years. Edye has wanted to share her vacation spot with Robert and Rudy for some time and this year she convinced them, and they convinced us to join them. (Not a very hard sell since San Miguel has been very cold this winter and a beach vacation was just the ticket.)

In addition to being a feisty 80 year old, Edye seems to be missing the “clutch” that most people use between thinking something and subsequently verbalizing. In other words, if she thinks something, she says it. No passing through neutral, figuring out what gear is appropriate, just straight mind to mouth, peppered with Yiddish expressions. I find it charming. People who don’t know her can be a little taken aback.

Edye lives with Jane while she vacations here. Jayne is an elegant widow who has rented the same beach house for 19 years. She met Edye years ago, while Edye was trudging down the beach clutching a bottle of rum, asking anyone in her path if they had an oven so she could bake a rum cake. Jane did and their friendship has endured.

Edye recommended “Hotel Casa Don Francisco” in Playa la Ropa. (The beach is so named because of a Spanish galleon shipwreck off the coast caused its precious Oriental cargo of silks to be washed on shore by the currents.) This bed and breakfast is very upscale with rooms costing approximately $200 USD per night. It has beautiful gardens and rooms with either an ocean view or a private plunge pool. (We got the plunge pool, Robert and Rudy got the view.)

The hotel is only steps from the beach, and while its amenities are quite elegant, there are no televisions in the rooms. Without a television, we are both reading more, which I like. Without television, Rod is a lot more amorous. (I’m thinking of throwing out our television when we get home.)

Rodrigo and I arrived a day earlier than Robert and Rudy. We had barely set our towels down at the beach when I spotted Edye basking in the sun, slowly beginning her own cremation now rather than waiting until passing. I walked up to her and said, “Edye Golden, I’m with the IRS and you’re being audited. I followed you down here. I hope you have your files with you.” But it didn’t work. She recognized me immediately. I introduced her to Rodrigo and we spent the rest of the day explaining why Robert and Rudy were not with us, meeting a variety of her friends on the beach (seniors who make George Hamilton look pale) and lunching at one of her local hangouts. That night, after the boys arrived, she and Jean hosted a delicious Mexican meal at their cottage on the beach. Dessert included both a Key Lime pie and Edye’s famous rum cake.

The next few days we alternated between the beach and town. Rudy arrived with a cold as did Rodrigo, and during the course of our stay I managed to catch Rodrigo’s cold, that I had managed to avoid for 10 days. Therefore, our activities were pretty low key. Edye had made reservations for a place called “Blue Mamu” for dinner and blues music. The music was good but the only choice of food was ribs or steak. (Good thing none of us are vegetarians.) We bid the ladies good night and set out to find a gay bar called “La Musa”. After walking through a rather dicey part of town we found it empty. They informed us that no one really arrives until the drag show at midnight. Given how dismal the place looked, and the lack of air conditioning, we left and never returned.

In general, the dinning and entertainment opportunities in Zihuatanejo seem to be rather limited. The beach is beautiful and offers plenty of activities, but after dark there is not a great deal to see or do. I understand that only four miles away, in Ixtapa, is where one will find all the action. However, we did not check it out.

The trip home was long. Rod and I arrived at the airport to find that our flight to Mexico City had been canceled. We caught another an hour later. I phoned our travel agent to tell them our new flight information. They met us at the airport and put us on the bus to Queretaro where we were met by our shuttle driver. Given the hour from our house to Queretaro, the three hour bus ride to Mexico City and the one hour flight to Zihuatanejo (and the wait time in between each), next time I think we’ll drive. They’ve opened a new super highway and we’ve been told that it takes between six and seven hours by car. But I don’t know which is worse, flying with a cold or driving with a cold.

While on vacation I read a book entitled, “Falling . . . in Love with San Miguel, Retiring to Mexico on Social Security” by Carol Schmidt and Norma Hair. I know it seems like a strange book for me to read given that I already live here. However, the authors are in my Spanish class so I felt somewhat obligated. It was quite a good read and reminded me of many of the reasons why I moved here. The book came out of their letter to friends and relatives back home, as they made the transition. It made me think that I might have been able to pull a book off from everything that I have written. However, they’ve beaten me to the punch. You can check out their website at www.fallinginlovewithsanmiguel.com.