On Becoming a Housewife . . .

After the first of the year I found myself agitated. Little things were annoying me, constantly. Then I had a revelation. I was becoming a housewife. Grocery shopping, picking up the dry cleaning, planning the weekly menu, travel planning, balancing the budget, etc., etc, etc.

Who made me this thing? I did. I can’t blame it on anyone else. But I didn’t retire early to be this.

Part of the problem is the time of year. Property taxes were due, as was the registration for the cars. And unlike the U.S., one doesn’t just drop a payment in the mail. One has to go to the requisite office and wait in line to pay. The line for property taxes was long but deceiving. Standing in line can also be a social event so sometimes there will be three or four people in line when only one has a transaction to complete. Therefore, the line moves much faster than one might think.

As for the menu planning, I have a strategy. Once we have a stockpile of menus, with balanced weekly meals, then I can just shuffle them. Or, I can have Maria (our maid) plan the week and submit it to me for approval. See? The old delegation skills can come in handy. (Maybe I’ll have the gardener put together a weekly project plan as well.)

After re-evaluating my direction for 2007, I am refocusing on the reasons that I moved here. So it is back to studying Spanish and writing. Oh sure, there will be the ongoing property improvement. I can’t help myself on that front. But it doesn’t have to happen all at once or even all in the next couple of years. I have nothing but time and our life is far from uncomfortable.

Baby steps, I think. That way I don’t set myself up to fail. With this in mind I began attending a free Spanish class that was advertised on the Civil_SMA Yahoo group. Classes began in Juarez part and as it became cooler, we moved to a room at the internet café, “Café, etc.” (This proved a nice change as we could all buy a tea or coffee before class. They also do a great comida if one wishes to have lunch after class.)

I used to frequent Café etc., in my early days in San Miguel. Juan, the proprietor, lived in New York and put together quite a business when he and his wife returned to San Miguel. Now he has two small children, boys, whose tee shirts garland the staircase, drying in the sun, where we climb to our class. Pacifiers in mouth, the boys wander between the tables in the café, their big brown eyes taking in all the strange gringos who are their parent’s customers.

I was the youngest in the class until I convinced Alex to join me. Our teacher is a retired attorney from Venezuela, Don Pedro. I am so impressed with this man, his patience, and his enthusiasm. He puts together lesson plans, bought himself a whiteboard and markers and even assigns homework. He also brings candy for us. All for free. I think I’d like to get to know him and his wife better. Maybe invite them out to the ranchito for comida or something. (One of my objectives for 2007 is to spend more time with Spanish speaking friends.)

I have also been asked to join a writer’s group which I intend to look into. Some of you may remember when I was ambushed into a group only to find out that I was expected to pay to attend, and it was lead by a woman less qualified than I. I won’t let that happen again.

Thursday we are off to Zihuatanejo for five days of soaking up the sun with Robert, Rudy and their friend Eddie. I’ve not been before and I understand that it is beautiful. And the climate should be perfect this time of year.

Free Hugs

So you can see by now that I've figured out how to add public videos to my blog. This has nothing to do with Mexico or being gay. But it is so about being human. (Be sure your sound is turned up.)

Two Fathers

This has nothing to do with Mexico but it was just too sweet not to share. Be sure your sound is turned up.

Cuernavaca and The First Mexican Family Christmas

First, a little background.

Rodrigo’s father is an ex-monk who received special dispensation from the Pope, to leave the brotherhood and marry his secretary, Rodrigo’s mother. His sister is the head of an order of nuns and lives in Rome. Rod’s father is one of 12 children, Rod’s mother is one of eight. Can we say Catholic?

One night Rod and I were watching the movie, “Torch Song Trilogy.” After witnessing Ann Bancroft’s character Rod said, “My mother is the Catholic version of her.” I was frightened.

Over the last two years, I have met his parents on several occasions, both in their home and in ours. They speak no English and I muddle through with my poor Spanish. Rod has been less then helpful with translating and while Rod’s father has always seemed pleasant enough, his mother has been cordial, but less than kind. (She “knows” where Rod’s dad seems to prefer the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” scenario.)

Every two years Rod’s father’s side of the family gathers for Christmas at Aunt Pili’s home in Mexico City. Usually about 40 adults and 17 children. Rod has never taken anyone home for Christmas. Yours truly, his older gringo boyfriend, who speaks very little Spanish, was to be the first.

After returning from New York we spent the night at the hotel in Mexico City. The next morning we left for Cuernavaca, which is also called the “City of eternal spring.” It was hot. Nearly Christmas and people were lying by the pool at the hotel. I had packed for New York.
After checking into the hotel, I steeled myself as we headed for Rod’s parents home for comida. When we arrived, Rod’s father had us put my new car in the driveway, behind the iron gates, for safety.

At home for comida were Rod’s parents, his older brother, sister-in-law and their two children. Shortly after we exchanged pleasantries, Rod said it was customary to give the gifts to the family before the big Christmas eve event, as the gifts at Christmas eve are usually just for the children and are from Santa. This proved great for me because I was able to help six-year-old Juan Carlos, Rod’s nephew, assemble his toy seaside scene. (He doesn’t care that I speak less Spanish than he does.)

Rod’s mother put out a lovely meal and much to my surprise, her attitude toward me has seemed to soften. Maybe she figures I’ve been around for two years now so she’d better get used to the idea. Who knows. But suddenly she is interested in what I have to say, has dropped the snide comments and made a real effort to ensure that I was included and understood everything that was being said. My shoulders began to relax. She immediately put on and continued to wear the little gold cross we bought her for Christmas.

After a delightful meal we made to leave. Rod’s father pushed the button to open the iron gate and Rod backed the car part way out of the driveway. However, he had to stop to allow traffic to pass. His father, thinking that we had left, pushed the button again. And the big door began to close. Rod leaned on the horn but his father’s response was too slow and the door hit the car, effectively leaving the very first scratch. Rod shot a glare at his father through the windshield.

“I’m sorry honey,” he said as he looked out the window at the scratch.

I hadn’t even seen it yet but just said, “It’s ok. Now I have something to remind me of your family every time I drive the car. And, the first scratch is out of the way.” It seemed kind of ironic that we survived driving in Mexico City and leaving the car unattended for a week at the hotel, and then got the first scratch from Rod’s dad. I thought about their next visit to San Miguel. Maybe I’ll ask his father to park at the end of the driveway so I can close our gate on his car.

The next day Rod’s father presented me with three different bottles of wine, nestled in a shiny wine rack, for Christmas. He then took us out to a very expensive lunch and wouldn’t hear of it when I reached for my wallet.

The following day was Christmas eve. Before heading back to Mexico City we stopped once again for a meal with the family. I was beginning to notice that Rod’s sister-in-law was warming up to me. However, Rod’s older brother would never make eye contact. Their children were all fired up about Christmas and began to get unruly. Rod’s brother lost his temper with them and the whole meal began to fall apart. I suggested that we leave since we were going to see everyone that night anyway. Rod agreed and we returned to the hotel in Mexico City.
That evening was much as I expected. With one exception, everyone was almost overly nice to me. It was as if they were genuinely pleased to meet me. And to his credit, Rod did not abandon me but did a great job ensuring that I was occupied, engaged and understood everything. In addition, a few of Rod’s cousins who I had met previously over the years, took good care of me and were careful to introduce me to anyone in the family who spoke English. To my surprise, Rod’s older brother came up to me and handed me a gift. He then pointed at himself and then to me, as if to say, “From me to you.” (That much I would have understood in Spanish.) Inside was a lovely box of Godiva chocolates. I was touched.

Children were running all over the place and at one point little Santiago and Juan Carlos came up to me and asked why I speak English. To which I had to explain that I was born in the United States but now I’m trying to learn Spanish. They seemed satisfied and ran off to resume their game of hide-and-seek.

Suddenly all the children were whisked off to see if they could see Santa arriving through the upstairs windows. Fathers then made a break for their cars to bring the in the Christmas loot and place it under the tree. Someone yelled, “Ho, Ho, Ho!” and there was a stampede of little feet on the stairs and squeals of delight as the children rounded the corner and saw the tree. One of the Uncles read out names and distributed the gifts.
During the chaos of packages being ripped apart, Aunt Pili passed out sheet music. The children were then told to put down their gifts and pick up their baby Jesus. These they carried by two, in swaddling, and formed a procession walking from room to room as everyone sang.

Dinner was served in two seating’s. There were two turkeys and a variety of traditional Christmas dishes that I have never seen before. Some were familiar, like a kind of Waldorf Salad. Others were completely different like a reconstituted dried fish dish called “Bacalao” and a dark móle dish. Everything was delicious.

We left about 2:00 in the morning and I even got hugs goodbye from Rod’s brother and his father. We returned for the “recalentado” (reheating of leftovers) the next morning before returning to San Miguel. While greatly reduced in numbers by then, there was still family sitting around the kitchen table. Some were in pajamas, others looked like they’d slept very little and were wearing the same clothes from the night before. But everyone was happy, encouraging us to stay longer and making promises to visit us.

As we were leaving, on of Rod’s aunts said something that I didn’t understand. When we got in the car I asked Rod what she said.

“She said, “Take care of him.””

I wished I’d understood and could have replied, “I’m doing the best I can.”

Surviving Manhattan

I told Rod that I was taking him somewhere for his 30th birthday. He assumed, given my preference, it was going to be someplace warm; a beach somewhere. He kept asking leading questions like, “What kind of clothes will I need to pack? Or, “Do I need to bring my passport?”

It all began one night while watching reruns of “Sex in the City”, when he said, “Honey, do you have any desire to take me to New York?” The seed was planted.

The idea began to bloom when I told Alex about my plan to surprise Rod with the trip. “We have an apartment in New York,” he said. “I don’t think anyone is using it. You could stay there. However, I should warn you that whatever you save on hotel costs you’ll probably spend on taxies. It is in the upper east side, about two blocks from Central Park.”

I told Rod about the trip at our birthday party, including two Broadway shows, Mama Mia and Chicago. I had to tell him before we left because I had carefully planned out the dates but needed his help with hotel logistics before and after the trip, as well as figuring out what to do with the car while we were gone. We were flying in and out of Mexico City and I was concerned about a safe place to leave the car, potentially with gifts for his family inside. Andrea offered her mother’s garage but her mother lives on one side of town, the hotel is on another and the airport on yet another.

So I asked Rod to call the hotel and ask them if they would keep the car. “We’ve never done that before,” they responded, “How much were you thinking?”

“100 pesos a day,” Rod replied.

“That’s kind of what I was thinking,” the guy responded.

The morning of our departure Rod’s cousin Gus picked us up at the hotel and drove us to the airport. Given that I now have residence status in Mexico, there is a form that I need to complete whenever I leave the country. After wandering the halls and asking multiple uniformed men where to find immigration, I left Rod guarding the luggage and stood in line enduring some electronic alarm that was going off that everyone else seemed able to ignore. 15 minutes later, when my name was called, I was informed that the forms were at the airline check-in counters. (I’d made the process more complicated than necessary.)

After a smooth flight and a little confusion at the empty Delta terminal at JFK, we took a taxi from the airport. Pushing our way past a stack of mail, we squeezed through the doorway of the apartment that we would call home for the next five days. After quickly freshening up we went out to a gay bar called “Splash” where we were served drinks by nearly naked bartenders with gym-perfect bodies.

The next day we met cousin Tommy (not my cousin but the cousin of my friend Bob back in California), who I have known for 20 years, for brunch and a walk in Central Park. Tommy gave us an attack plan and restaurant recommendations, found us some tourist guides that included street, subway and bus maps, and off we went.

The first couple of days were spent primarily as tourists. We were wandering the streets with our map in hand, camera poised, when Rod said, “Is that what I think it is?” We had quite literally stumbled onto “Ground Zero.” It was eerie, and emotional.

We paid our respects and then we walked, and walked and walked, until we couldn’t walk any more. Trinity Church, Wall Street, the World Financial Center and Battery Park. We opted to settle for a distant view of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island as it was too cold to take the ferry. I hailed a taxi and told the driver, “Macy’s please”. What a zoo. (Remind me to never go shopping in New York the week before Christmas.) But we had done nearly no shopping for Christmas so we had to power through, and continued to do so over the next few days.

One evening we left Bloomingdales in search of FAO Schwartz. When I found a corner free of the masses of shoppers, I looked at the map and determined that we had walked three blocks in the wrong direction. I looked around and spotted a TGIF’s. “Follow me,” I said to Rod.

When we had finished our chicken wings, potato skins and egg rolls, and washed them down with a couple of cocktails, I turned to Rod. “I’m sorry but I just couldn’t go on anymore. But now I’m ready to hit the stores again.”

“That’s ok. I was getting hungry too but I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want you to get hysterical.”

“Not fair. I haven’t gotten hysterical in a long time.”

“That’s because I’m doing a very good job.”

(I hate to admit it, but he is probably right.)

All in all, the shows were great, the food was great, we figured out the subway and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. The apartment was a god-send as we had our home away from home where, when we just couldn’t do anymore, we could sit back with a dry martini.

The biggest surprise was running into one of Rod’s clients, from San Miguel, with her family, at the top of the Empire State building. They had gone to Montreal to ski but there was no snow so they went to New York. Yet another “small world” story.

Rod’s two disappointments; no snow (even though I explained that snow in a big city is only pretty for an hour and then it becomes a mess) and, when we ordered Chinese food in one night, it did not come in the little cardboard boxes. It came in plastic. (He so wanted to eat Chinese out of one of those boxes.) Maybe next year.