Influenza, part 2

Rumors abound. Some say there are four reported cases in San Miguel, another is one but not confirmed, and yet another is none in the state of Guanajuato.

What is real is the panic. There is not a tube of hand sanitizer or a bottle of rubbing alcohol to be found in town. Stores have been cleaned out of these and any flu treatment medicines.

Tuesday night we went to hear a couple of friends perform their music at a local restaurant. Shortly after we left, the authorities came in and closed the restaurant until May 6th. Schools are closed, church services canceled; restaurants may only serve food for take-out and bars and movie theaters are closed. Religious holiday festivities have been canceled.

My maid said that she passed by the Tuesday market (usually a mad house of activity) and the only people there were the vendors. The carnitas (pork taco) stands had sold nothing.

Hotel and home rental reservations have been canceled and their phones for future reservations are eerily silent.

(Is Stephen King somehow involved in this?)

Influenza

The jokes began flying nearly as soon as the virus was announced. But so did alarm.

Some people say to take it easy and just go about your normal life; others are calling it early signs of the apocalypse. Rod thinks we should go out looking for it, get sick for two weeks and then be immune, thus eliminating further concern on our part. It’s a plan, I guess, but not one I favor right now.

What struck me today, was how people riding motorcycles will go to the trouble to wear a surgical mask, supposedly protecting themselves from the virus, but won’t wear a helmet. Which is really higher risk, the flu or a serious, crippling head injury?

I guess only time will tell.

Banking in Mexico

There are aspects of banking in Mexico that remind me of banking in the U.S., 20 years ago. For example, the rubber stamp is very popular; there are mountains of paperwork which are embellished with big flourishing signatures, and long lines on Fridays and paydays.

In other aspects, it is nearly the same as the U.S., with online access to account balances and transaction history.

My biggest challenge was getting a checking account. The ranchito doesn’t have a physical mailing address and the banks wouldn’t accept my post office box in town.

Then Scotia Bank came to town. New to San Miguel, they were hungry for customers and because I have an account with their investment arm (Scotia Casa de Bolsa) in Mexico City, they rolled out the red carpet. I got my checking account, a debit/ATM card, and just for kicks, a credit card. To overcome the address challenge, they had me draw a map to my house on the back of my account agreement.

The Casa de Bolsa to Bank relationship has been great. Every 28 days they deposit the interest to my bank account and reinvest the principle.

What surprised me was the credit card. I thought it was free (i.e., no annual membership fee). Not wanting to read the fine print (in Spanish) that constituted my account agreement, I was surprised to find out today that the membership fee is only waived for the first year.

I never used the card and the statement I received depicted an annual membership fee for next year, of 345 pesos. I further reviewed the statement to learn that the minimum payment is 50% and the annual interest rate is 33.80%. No airline miles, no rebates, nada.

I canceled that bad boy in a heartbeat.

(“Read the fine print” takes on a whole new meaning when it’s in another language.)

The Water Company

The water company here is called SAPASMA (Sistema de Agua Potable y Alcantarillado de San Miguel de Allende – no wonder it’s abbreviated).

When I bought the ranchito, I asked our neighbor why we’d never gotten a water bill. “You won’t,” he said. “I pay the water for all four houses here. If you ask for a bill they’ll start reading our meters and everyone will pay more. Now I pay 600 pesos for the whole year so don’t worry about it.”

I believed him. This is a private development and it is his family who are the developers. Why wouldn’t I believe him?

A month ago SAPASMA showed up at my front gate with a water bill for 47,000 pesos (think over $4,000 USD). They said the bill had never been paid and it was my responsibility to collect from the previous owners. If I didn’t pay within five days, my water would be shut off.

Long story short, my neighbor is full of crap. My water was turned off and together we went to the SAPASMA offices where he was scolded by the woman in charge but we were able to negotiate my bill down to 32,000 pesos. (And I was given three months to pay.) Probably 10,000 pesos of that is the actual water that I’ve used over the last five years. The rest is from the previous owners and penalties for non-payment. (I could probably sue but it is not worth the bad blood between neighbors. Instead, I told my neighbor that I wanted a lifetime membership to the new golf course that is supposed to be built here; hopefully in my lifetime.)

You may remember an entry about a year ago, entitled “Deadly Water” where I chronicled how SAPASMA had over chlorinated our water and killed 26 koi and goldfish in our pond. They’ve done it again.

When SAPASMA killed my fish the first time we called and complained about the chlorine level in the water. Our skin and hair were dry and we smelled like Clorox all day. (We’ve filed three such complaints over the year, which is probably why they showed up and discovered that we hadn’t paid.)

As part of my approaching 50 check-ups, I recently had some blood work done. Notably high was the amount of chlorine in my bloodstream. (We don’t drink this water, but we shower and wash our vegetables in it every day.)

So this morning, when I found all the new fish dead, I was in a heat. I walked to my acupuncture appointment rehearsing my Spanish in my head. Now that I’m paying, why am I paying for poison water? I had visions of hurling the dead fish at the woman in charge. How do you say, “You keep what you kill!” in Spanish?

Instead, I put all the dead fish in a clear zip-lock bag, grabbed my maid, Mari, and off we went to do battle with SAPASMA.

We must have been quite the sight; the tall gringo and the small, chubby Mexican woman, me with my handful of paperwork, her with a bag of shiny dead fish. Not only did we file a report with a clerk, but we were eventually taken to the head of the company. Mari would tell the story and I would elaborate where my Spanish permitted. I showed them my lab reports. Mari told them about our dry skin and how all of our dark clothes were washed out from the chlorine. She alternately sat with the bag of dead fish on her lap or would place them gently on the desk for emphasis. (She felt they should pay for the fish.)

Who knows what will happen but now that I’m a paying customer, and I’ve got Mari by my side, I’m going to continue to make a fuss.

The SAPASMA director promised to increase the number of times per day that the technicians check the chlorinating equipment in our area. We’ll see.

(I told Mari that if I die, I want her to drop my body in the SAPASMA director’s office.)

Semana Santa 2009

It is rumored that the best week to visit Mexico City is Semana Santa, or Holy Week, because everyone in Mexico City leaves thus making traffic more manageable. The problem is that a great many of them come to San Miguel.

It is interesting how things change for the foreigner living here. The first couple of years you would have found me running into centro to witness and photograph all of the celebration activities. However now, after about six years, I avoid it like the plague. Traffic is crazy, parking a nightmare and crowds of people line the streets.

Two of our friends were part of the migration. “Get ready,” Horst said when he and Christian arrived, “Everyone from Mexico City is headed this way.”

Christine and Mario also joined us from Queretaro, only 45 minutes away normally, but they encountered the incoming traffic from Mexico City as well.

Festivities ensued and when one of them would take us near centro, we parked at the top of town and took the bus in and a taxi back. Horst and Christian returned to Mexico City on Saturday and were replaced by Karl and Mariana.

Easter Sunday found the six of us lounging around the ranchito. We cooked and ate together and then people drifted to different activities; Karl working on a presentation for a gallery opening, Mariana (eight months pregnant) reading a magazine and later napping in the hammock, Mario reading Catcher in the Rye (in Spanish) and Rodrigo and Christine alternatively watching old musicals on TV or napping on the sofa. I puttered around in the yard, watering and tending to plants. It was my favorite type of a day at home; where people come together and then drift away, no one needing or expecting to be entertained, just helping themselves to whatever. That type of comfortable silence or banter that comes when people know each other well. The type of day for which the ranchito is designed (what with its various small seating or lounging areas).

Someone suggested that we go into town for dinner. “Are you crazy?” was the general response. So we decided on a Uruguayan restaurant on the edge of town, where the crowds promised to be minimal and parking is available.

We were the only table. The others were all empty. As we were sitting there, Christine commented: “Do you realize that we’re all bi-cultural couples?” It was true. All three couples are Mexican-American (with Rod and I additionally being queer just to enhance the diversity a notch). Maybe it is one reason that we’re all so comfortable around each other.

The chef was a rather rotund man with long red stringy hair pulled back into a clumsy ponytail. After preparing our meals on an open grill, he waddled out with his guitar and serenaded us (rather well).

One doesn’t encounter that every day.

The Bell’s Palsy Treatment Labyrinth

I have it again. Bell’s Palsy. (http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/bells-palsy/DS00168)

I’ve had it twice before; once when I was 19, again at 29 and now at 49. (Somehow I dodged 39.)

I felt the all-to-familiar dull ache at the back of my neck and above my ear. But I thought, “It’s not that bad. I don’t want to take antibiotics so I’ll eat some raw garlic and maybe it will go away.”

Failure to trust my instincts could well have cost me facial deformity anywhere from six months to forever.

While I was on heavy-duty antibiotics, I wasn’t allowed to consume alcohol. So I couldn’t even drown my sorrows for a night. Plus, I’m supposed to stay out of the sun and wind. This really sucks because if I’m going to be sequestered away at home, I’d at least like to get some work done in the yard.

I’m seeing three doctors, two of whom are good friends. One is an M.D. or general practitioner, the other a naturopath and an acupuncturist. The third, the new one, specializes in rehabilitation and uses electrotherapy treatments.

The electrotherapy is probably my favorite (when the frigg’n nurse doesn’t turn up the power too high sending lightening bolts out of my teeth). At least I get an hour’s nap while my face is pulsing with a mild current.

My insurance doesn’t cover this. I’m on a catastrophic policy. It is international but has a list of preferred providers. The closest hospital on their list is 45 minutes away in Queretaro. And there is a $3,000 USD deductible.

I have no desire to drive to Queretaro every day and at an average treatment cost of about 300 pesos, it will be a long time before I reach the deductable.

I miss my $20 co-pay.

I’m off the antibiotics now. (That first glass of wine was about the best I’ve ever tasted.) And truth be told, I’m seeing some improvement. I can blink again and there is some movement in my right eyebrow and right side of my mouth. So something is working because this is a faster recovery than I experienced before.

Re-Occurring Dream

In my dream, I’m still working at Providian and I’m trying to find someone to fire me. I know that I have a country home in Mexico and I want to go back. I wander the halls looking for someone of authority, to tell me that my assignment has ended and my services are no longer needed. But office after office is empty.

I ask the few other people that I see, “Do you know where so-and-so is? Or maybe so-and-so?”

“He’s gone,” or “She’s gone.”

I begin to panic. I’m going to be stuck in this cubicle jungle forever. I look out the window. The building overlooks the airport and planes are leaving. I want to be on one.

Will someone please fire me!

Then I wake up and all is good.