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.