The Lighter side of Owen

Owen and Nancy were the first people that I met in San Miguel.

I was just finishing up breakfast at Café de la Parroquia, on a crisp winter day. While I was waiting for my bill I could see them eyeing my table in the sun. So I asked if they’d like to sit down with me while I waited. Thus ensued a lively conversation where the two of them were gracious enough to give this newcomer the lay of the San Miguel land. One of their pearls of wisdom was the “. . . best internet café in town, Café Etc.”

At the time I was renting a crappy little casita in the bowels of Colonia San Antonio. The casita was conveniently wedged between a furniture factory and a day-care. Therefore, I spent as little time as possible at home and found myself frequently at Café Etc. Nearly every day I’d run into Owen and Nancy and if not Nancy, at least Owen, who would always offer to share his table for lunch.

As my friends will attest, I have very little trouble talking about myself. This didn’t seem to bother Owen. In fact, he’d pose question after question that encouraged me to prattle on.

One day two things became clear; 1. Owen hadn’t asked at least one pertinent question, and 2. He had no trouble speaking precisely what was on his mind, without beating around the bush.

He began to tell me a story about a woman he’d met, with whom he was very impressed. She apparently lived in the campo, growing her own garden, was very self-sufficient and musical as well. “I’m not saying that you should marry her,” he said. “But you might want to get together for sex or something.”

I’m sure I hesitated. I also didn’t volunteer the information that I had not provided those services for women in over 20 years. I think I said something like, “That would be nice, thank you for thinking of me, I look forward to meeting her.” (I also felt relatively safe because I figured from what he described, there was a good chance she was a lesbian anyway.)

Over time I guess he either figured things out or someone clued him in, because at lunch one day I ordered the club sandwich. Owen said, “I like that sandwich but it is too big. I can’t get my mouth around it.” When I took a full sized bite he said, “Oh, you wouldn’t have a problem, would you.” I was speechless. I think I pretended that I didn’t hear him.

And to a friend of mine who is from a wealthy family, I overheard Owen say, “Of course you don’t understand. Your problem is that you’re just too darn rich!”

I wish that my father could have lived long enough to meet Owen. They would have been fast friends. I can picture them sitting together in the Jardin, discussing philosophy, the merits of various religions, politics and relationships. Two wise men, gentle souls who saw things, lived things and came through it all as better people. Two men who could be moved to tears out of pride for someone else’s accomplishments. Two men who never tied of learning or listening.

Nancy, please know that Rodrigo and I are here for you. We will all miss him, but no one as much as you, the person with whom he shared his life and for whom he was so grateful and so proud.

And to Owen, my friend, I look forward to seeing you in the next life. I may need you to hook me up. Only this time, try to get the gender right.

Children

When I moved to San Miguel it quickly became apparent that I had a choice as to which social community I was to become a member; the retired ex-pat community (older than me) or the more bohemian, artsy, crowd (younger than me). While I acquired a few older friends, by far I fell into the later group. Maybe it is my inherent immaturity but I think it was simply because they were more fun.

What this has meant over the last six years is that I’m repeating a former stage of my life. That period where people are getting engaged, married and having children, giving birth to a series of events such as weddings (where I was a stand-in Father of the Bride in one and a witness in another), baptisms (I am godfather to one and another on the way), first communions, etc.

The same crowd with whom I used to party until daylight, now come over and bounce children on their laps. The lawn that used to be covered with beer caps is now covered with toys. (Ok, the beer caps are still there.) I love it. I even get slightly disappointed when our friends show up to an event without their children. The words, “We got a baby sitter” make me a little sad.

Unique to this environment is that all these children are growing up bi-lingual, some even tri-lingual.

Santiago’s parents are British and German-Mexican. He is 11 years old and when speaking to someone, he must invoke his own form of racial profiling. He looks at the person and then decides whether he is going to address them in English, Spanish or German. We were at his home for dinner one evening and he was entertaining us in English. I turned to his mother and said, “He has the most delightful British accent.”

“You don’t think he sounds American?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Oh good,” she said. “No offense.”



While the babies are cute as ever, I love when they get to the talking stage. At age four, Liam’s mother asked him how was his first day at pre-school. His response was, “I didn’t hurt anybody.”

I was carrying this same Liam to his parents’ car one evening, balancing him on my hip, when he said to me, “Can you put me down? My penis is up and it hurts.” Of course I put him down immediately. (Later I thought, I should have taught him something more subtle. Like, “Hey dude. Put me down. You’re smashing my junk.”)

And I love the latest that his mother posted on facebook:

“I've been telling Liam that he can't say "boobie" at his Nuna's house. So tonight I put him to bed and said when you see everyone, Papa Jack, Aunt Jancie, Mimi and Papa and Nuna you can tell them that you love them. He said, "And I won't say "boobie". What a good boy.”

Rodrigo keeps suggesting that we adopt or find a surrogate mother. “We can’t afford it,” doesn’t entirely convince him. I’m not sure that, “I’m 50!” does either.