Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

The shuttle arrived at our hotel in Antigua at 7:45 AM. We were the first pick up. Our second stop was nearby and we collected a friendly, very clean-cut, young backpacker. He told us he was Italian, from a city near Venice. When we pulled up in front of the third stop we saw a sign on the wall that told us it was a Lutheran Retreat Center. “Great,” Alex said, “We’re going to be riding for two hours with a bunch of religious fanatics.”

“It’s ok,” said the Italian with a smile, “I’m a Jehovah Witness.”

Alex and I donned earpieces and listened to music from his Ipod the rest of the ride.

Getting to Lake Atitlan from Antigua was not pretty; not at first. The road took us through impoverished towns, even by Mexican standards. However, about an hour through the two hour drive, the road vistas opened up to farm land and sweeping valleys, revitalizing our senses. Descending into the quaint little lakeside town of Panajachel, we were assaulted by Guatemalan children wanting to carry our luggage to the boats. Volcanoes provide the backdrop to the lake, and breathtaking views.

I believe that water, clean water, consistently elevates the beauty of a place; whether it be the ocean, a river, stream or waterfall, or a lake. There is something special about being on or near the water. Lake Atitlan must be one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

And I’m certainly not the first to think this. The information in our hotel room at Villa Sumaya, says, “Lake Atitlan is known by the Guatemalans to be the center of the universe, where God seeds of mankind evolved.”

Villa Sumaya probably deserves a blog entry all on its own. Accessible only by boat, it is an oasis that serves as a yoga retreat and spiritual healing center. It boasts lush gardens, stunning views, winding paths that spill into secluded meditation or lounging areas, all set on the edge of the lake.

On the night of the full moon Alex performed a Maya fire ceremony. It was just the two of us. When the fire was nearly complete, Alex had me lay on the grass with my eyes closed while he walked me through a visualization exercise. When we’d finished I opened my eyes. Sitting around the fire was the hotel owner Wendy, and her two daughters, Celine, age 8, and Chloe, age 6. They had placed red roses around the fire. I had no idea that they had arrived, so quietly, so respectful.

These beautiful girls, French-American by dissent, were born and raised in Guatemala and speak four languages, including the local native dialect. They are fascinating children who have been brought up in an environment of spirituality, healing and creativity. They evidence a kind of wisdom in their expressions that far exceeds their years.

We spent our few days lounging in hammocks and lounge chairs, reading, getting massages and visiting with the other guests. A thoroughly delightful retreat that I would recommend to everyone. The food was less than great but we believe that the chef was on vacation during the first part of our visit. Things seemed to pick up when he appeared on the scene near the end of our stay.

We shared a shuttle back to Antigua, with a delightful mother-daughter couple we met at the resort. They were Australians and the daughter had just completed an exchange program at U.C. Berkeley. Small world.

It is nice to be led, instead of leading. Alex is a seasoned traveler. He has wanted to share Guatemala with me for some time. He handled all the travel arrangements and every time I began to think, “We should arrange . . .” he had already taken care of everything.

Puerto Escondido

In a word, HOT. I don’t know how people function in this heat. If it is like this in January, how must it be during the summer?

We wanted to get away from the cold and we did. Ticket prices had dropped to half what they were during the holidays and so with only three day planning, Alex and I booked the trip. The January forecast from the Power Path School of Shamanism (http://thepowerpath.com/) recommended that we break our routines so we interpreted this to be an act of spontaneity encouraged by the universe.

On the recommendation of a friend we chose to stay at the Casamar Apartments (http://www.casamarmexico.com/) on Zicatela beach. A two bedroom apartment (complete with kitchen) overlooking the pool, cost us $545 for the week.

Casamar is a relatively new family run operation; 12 apartments and the family residence surround a pool and gardens in a kind of “Melrose Place” atmosphere. Laine, the daughter of the owners, manages the complex.

Laine’s older sister was visiting from Boston with her new baby. Probably suspecting that Alex and I were a couple (which we are not, he's straight), she told us that her “partner” had just returned to the states with their two-year-old son. It was clear that her “partner” was a woman. The same question came to both Alex and me but it remained unasked. We didn’t feel that “Where did you get the sperm?” was a polite question to ask of someone we’d just met.

Our favorite members of the family were Casey and Rosita; two beautiful golden retrievers who share a passion for playing fetch, especially if it means jumping into the swimming pool.

I began an activity that I hope to make routine. I had read in a book that if one wants to lose weight (among a list of other things) one should walk an hour every day. I therefore set out to walk Zicatela beach the morning after we arrived.

Did I mention that it was hot?

Puerto Escondido is an international surfing destination, home of the “Mexican Pipeline.” If Calvin Klein is looking for new underwear models, he would be well advised to look in Puerto Escondido. “Think about it,” my friend Karl said back home, “They have to swim like a mile out to catch the best waves and they do that all day.” For someone who is not very happy with the condition of his aging body, my morning walks were an immensely humbling experience.

I’d heard that the last “affordable” beach front property in Mexico can be found in Puerto Escondido. This may be true, more so three years ago, but other than surfing and lying on the beach, there is not a great deal to do here. Not yet.

However, Scott, the owner of the restaurant Seis Palmas (not to be missed for fine dining) broke it down this way; “We have an international airport but no international flights, the ex-governor of the state is building a white elephant of a resort in the center of town, a local developer recently opened a cement factory including a fleet of new cement trucks, and an enormous discount supermarket is under construction as we speak. What does a town of 60,000 inhabitants need with all this? What do they know that we don’t?”

Scott didn’t appear to think much of the surfing community. “Surfers don’t have any money. They just surf and eat pizza.” But then he pointed to a group of million dollar homes on a cliff overlooking a pristine bay. “That one belongs to an Englishman, that to a Spaniard, that one an Italian, that one an American and over there, a Canadian. This place is attracting an international community.”

One evening Alex and I were sitting on our veranda when Alex said, “Holly Shit! That is the biggest scorpion I’ve ever seen!” There on the banister, headed toward the palapa terrace above, was a sizable dark scorpion. A few minutes later a huge toad appeared near the entrance to our terrace. When I approached him, he hopped up the steps after the scorpion. A few minutes later, a mouse ran past us, toward the stairs. “There must be a meeting up there tonight,” I said. “I wonder what they’re talking about. This could be the title to a children’s story; The Mouse, the Toad and the Scorpion.”

Have I said that it was really hot?

Our routine became one of eating, reading and sleeping. I would get up and take my morning walk. By the time I returned Alex was usually awake. Then we’d order breakfast, eat, read, take long naps, play with the dogs and swim a little, shower and go to dinner. More often than not, dinner was at a wonderful new restaurant called Guadua (http://www.guadua.com.mx/), just down the beach from our apartment. Diego and his business partners have put together an amazing menu in a beautiful, slightly Asian setting. (Watch out for the drink prices though. Ouch!) After dinner we’d sit on our terrace and solve the world’s problems.

While Puerto Escondido may be a good investment opportunity, it didn’t sing to me. I need a little more infrastructure, a little more cultural diversity, a little more interesting architecture, a larger variety of activities and a little less heat.

The search continues.

Christmas in Tennessee

I knew that I had to get out of town. I wasn’t about to spend Christmas alone, playing martyr in front of the tree.

Visiting people is difficult when one doesn’t work. The people that you visit only have evenings and weekends to spend with you unless they take time off of work (or school). Plus many people have family plans around the holidays and a moping recently divorced person does not exactly scream “Holiday Spirit”.

I needed to be someplace where I could be myself, grieve if I needed and laugh if I were able. I needed the embrace of real friends, people who accept me whatever my mood, people who would understand my suffering but within which they would not allow me to wallow. I ran to Annette and Glenn in Tennessee.

Annette and Glenn retired early as well. With them I was able to talk about what it means to be retired, to find purpose, enjoyment and happiness without the trappings of employment.

(I should mention that with a huge house in Murfreesboro, a loft in Nashville, a four-bedroom houseboat on the lake, ski boats, a fleet of high-end cars, etc., they’ve got the enjoyment issue pretty nailed down.)

The day I arrived, Annette and I were so excited to see each other that we could hardly finish a sentence before moving onto the next subject.

The next day visitors from England arrived; Jeremy, his wife Christina (originally from Ecuador) and their six-month-old Josephine. Christina was so excited to be able to speak Spanish that she walked in the door and blew my head off. I quickly explained that she needed to speak slower and forgive my lack of vocabulary. And Josephine, the baby, I wanted to put her in my flight bag and bring her back with me. So cute and, as in so many Latin families, completely comfortable being passed from person to person, good natured, hardly a tear shed the entire visit. Jeremy has that quick British wit that makes one wonder why half the population is not stand-up comics. Their visit was thoroughly enjoyable. The night before they left, Jeremy told me that he didn’t really know any gay people and that I’d totally changed his impression. That he now feels that he has a “gay mate” and wants to take me to the pub in the village where he lives. He and Christina kept telling me that I have to visit and stay with them in their new house.

Annette and Glenn's daughter Stephanie, with baby Josephine

We played golf, dined in restaurants, cooked together, played guitars and sang, played games and just generally hung out. It was the perfect blend of activity and relaxation.

I returned to Mexico not healed but healthier, and well on the road to recovery. Our conversations helped me pull my head out of the Mexican sand and realize that the opportunities are virtually limitless and that this period in my life is not but a transition out of something stifling and into something exciting.

For their sage advice, their wisdom, their fresh perspective, their friendship and love, I thank Annette and Glenn from the bottom of my heart. They have booked their flights to visit me in April and I couldn’t be more excited.

After being back in San Miguel for a little over a week, I’m feeling the familiar pull of depression again. Aside from fear of running into Rod (and what that might bring up emotionally) part of it is probably the cold. We’ve had a mild winter thus far but now the nights are dropping below freezing. Days are beautiful but the house holds the night chill.

On a whim I looked at my teaching schedule and then looked up airfare to Puerto Escondido (where right now it is 80 degrees in the day and doesn’t drop below 70 at night). Flights are half the price given the short notice. I leave tomorrow for a week.

Alex is coming with me. We’ve been task by many people to look into real estate while we are there. Some have said that it is the last affordable beach front property in Mexico. It is supposed to be a surfer hang-out, the home of the “Mexican pipeline”. However, with only one flight per day from Mexico City, I think that it may be a little culturally remote as a place to live. Later, in the next few months, I hope to check out San Pancho and the state of Nayarit above Puerto Vallarta.

I’ve been thinking that, eventually, it might be nice to downsize and live someplace that is warm in the winter (even at night) so that I can travel in the summer. Any of these places would fit the bill. I’ve been getting flack when I mention leaving Mexico but no one seems to mind if I stay in Mexico and move to the beach. (But what about hurricanes?)

The Christmas Party

Some months ago I received a flyer in my mail box that said, “Enhance your Mexican experience. Become an English teacher.” So I did. I signed up as a volunteer teacher at the San Miguel School of English, an adult education program that has been around for over 50 years.

“Here are your books,” the President of the organization said. And that was the extent of my training. I am the youngest teacher in the group.

I have second year students and was told that my class size was to be around 30 students but I’d lose 30% of those before the end of the semester due to family or work conflicts, or just because it is too hard. I had determined that I would be such a great teacher that I’d have a much lower attrition rate. As predicted, I’m down by 30%. However, one of the other second year teachers has resigned and moved to Mazatlan so they are splitting her class between mine and one other (so I’ll be back to 30 students when the semester begins again). However, attendance is all over the board so each class tends to down by five or more.

What a strange language, English. Try explaining that, “They’re”, “There”, and “Their” are all pronounced the same but have different meanings. Or “Two”, “To” and “Too”.

I find that I get annoyed thinking, “Shit, I have to teach tonight. I’d better sit down and do my lesson plan.” But once I’m in front of the class, at the board, I get into it.

Alex decided to come observe one night, to see if it might be something he’d like to do. Before we even got into my classroom, the President had enlisted him in a month of substitute teaching for one of the teachers who was traveling. (Volunteer organizations can be ruthless.) He enjoyed the experience and helped conquer his fear of public speaking. (“Look at it this way,” I said, “All you have to do is stand up there and talk and you’re providing more than they’d get otherwise.”) For the time, he replaced me as the youngest teacher.

I was told that we could have our Christmas party in the classroom, or, some teachers offer to hold the party at their home. The students bring absolutely everything. The teacher just provides the space. Given that I live out in the “campo” I thought they’d opt for the classroom. Guess again. They had their meeting and handed out tasks. I handed out maps.

Most of the regular students, the ones with good attendance, participated. As I was told, they brought absolutely everything. The food was traditional and delicious. We had a chocolate gift exchange. After a few hours I was wondering how long they were going to stay. As if reading my mine, one of the women walked by wearing my cowboy hat and said, “We are leaving when the tequila is gone.” The bottle was half full.

People milled about the living and dinning room and walked outside to look at the stars. Martha had brought her seven-year-old daughter so I put “Finding Nemo” in the DVD player in Spanish. Martha and her daughter ended up leaving shortly after the move started but a group of the adults plopped themselves down with their tequila and watched.

I came out to the group. I hadn’t intended to but a couple of people asked me if I lived at the ranchito “solo”. In my Spanish (about the level of their English) I explained that I had recently split from my “Novio” (boyfriend). “Novia” (girlfriend) they corrected me. “No, novio,” I corrected them. There were murmurs in Spanish and a general wide opening of eyes.

They asked how long it had been and I must have started to tear over when I said only a few weeks, because everyone began comforting me, telling me that I’d be fine after time. I got hugs from everyone when they left, even the men. The acceptance of this community continues to impress me.

The Process of Healing

I often wonder if I am less efficient than others when it comes to recovering from breakups. Logically, I’m able to look at the situation and conclude that, yes, it didn’t work and it wasn’t going to work. Why then, do I subsequently spend so much time living in a fog? Probably because instead of living in what was and what is, I tend to live in what might have been. I walk through life as if my mind is swimming through jello. People talk to me, and I hear them, but it is as if their voices and my responses are passing through some sort of filter, slowing everything down. In my head I play and replay past conversations as well as future conversations that will never be had. Emotions ricochet between sorrow and sympathy, acceptance and anger, loss and betrayal, abandonment and enthusiasm.

There must be some comfort derived from having a familiar person around even if that person is annoying as hell. At some level I guess bad company was better than no company at all.

After my previous relationship I didn’t date seriously for 10 years. And that relationship only lasted 9 months where this one was nearly three years (although the entire last year pretty much sucked). How long before I’m normal again? Can someone please give me a deadline?

Time always seems to move so quickly except after a breakup. Everyone says that time will heal. Why then do the days seem longer than 24 hours, the weeks more than seven days and months take forever to end?

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.