Mexican Friends

(Something that is floating around the internet.)

FRIENDS: Never ask for food.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Are the reason you have food.
. . .
FRIENDS: Will say 'hello.'
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Will give you a big hug and a kiss.
. . .
FRIENDS: Call your parents Mr. and Mrs.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Call your parents mom and dad.
. . .
FRIENDS: Have never seen you cry.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Cry with you.
. . .
FRIENDS: Will eat at your dinner table and leave.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Will spend hours there, talking, laughing and just being together and then take a plate to go.
. . .
FRIENDS: Borrow your stuff for a few days then give it back.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Keep your stuff so long they forget it's yours.
. . ..
FRIENDS: Know a few things about you.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Could write a book with direct quotes from you.
. . .
FRIENDS: Will leave you behind if that's what the crowd is doing.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Will kick the whole crowds' ass that left you.
. . .
FRIENDS: Would knock on your door.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Walk right in and say, 'Hey, I'm here!'
. . .
FRIENDS: Are for a while.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Are for life.
. . .
FRIENDS: Pretend it is OK when you are being a pest.
MEXICAN FRIENDS: Tell you, 'ay, como chingas !!!! (Kind of like, “Enough already! Quit whinning!!!!”)

Getting Past the Price of Golf

The local private golf course wants close to $35 USD to use their driving range. Outrageous! It is only $15 more (weekdays after 2:00 PM) to play nine holes including your caddy. (Caddies are not optional, they are required.) So Eric came up with a solution; he made his own driving range. (It helps when your family has a big ranch.) And it is less than a mile from our house.

His plans for upgrading our new venue include having his mother sew flags for the range markers and moving his airstream trailer to the site, to serve as a clubhouse. His family is now producing grapes and making wine on the ranch so homemade wine will be available at the clubhouse.

So bye-bye expensive private club range. (However we’ll still need to go to the club in order to play an actual round of golf.)

Return to San Luis Potosi

This weekend we decided to get away for a night and visit our friend Victor in San Luis Potosi.

According to Victor, people in San Luis are all about the food. Given such, there are numerous restaurants with varying cuisines. So for you visitors, when you're tired of Mexican food, I cannot recommend highly enough the Oriental Grill. The menu is a delightful combination of Thai, Japanese and Chinese dishes.

After our sumptuous dinner we went to a bar called "Sheik" (which the Mexicans pronounce "Shake"). I went to the bar to get drinks for Rod and I. While there a boy who looked about 18 years old kept making eye contact with me. I simply nodded and took our drinks upstairs. A few minutes later Rod excused himself to go to the restroom. Immediately the young man approached me and struck up a conversation. When Rod returned Victor told him that he’d better keep an eye on his man because he’s the only gringo in the bar and the boys are circling. “It’s ok, “Rod said, “It’s good for his self esteem.” (Bless him.)

After Sheik we went to my favorite bar in San Luis, El Greko. The photos below will probably explain why it is my favorite.

Hugo, Victor and Rod (after a few cocktails).

Me (after a cocktail or two) with a few of our waiters.

Some Random Photos

Night shot of the Parroquia from Alex's mother's rooftop.

Patti, Karen, Bob and Pao on Alex's mother's rooftop, after an amazing meal at THE Restaurant at Sollano #16

The recently engaged Marianna & Karl in Bob & Karen's Sala.

Cynthia and I in Bob & Karen's entryway.


Our rescue dog Evita, waiting for someone to pet her.

Tokens

Rod and I seem to be the token diversity couple in town. This was a from a shoot for a new website to be released some time in the future.

Chilango Prices

First a little background. A “chilango” is what Mexicans call a person from Mexico City. Originally it held a rather derogatory implication relating to behavior (i.e., how a person drives, the way they treat wait staff or how they generally behave in public like they are better than other people). Now it is a matter of context. As I refer to myself as a “gringo” another may refer to himself as a “chilango”, and the expression can be playful between friends. However, “F’n gringo!” or “F’n chilango!” take the expression back to its roots.

Second, many books will tell you that there are two prices in Mexico; the Mexican price and the gringo price (the gringo price, of course, always being the higher of the two). This doesn’t apply to restaurants or department stores where prices are labeled, but can apply to services rendered or in a Mercado (Market). Instructions to gringos in these same books, say to buck-up and pay the higher price. After all, it is not that much higher and they need it.

The other day I parked at my favorite downtown parking lot. I’m a regular at this lot, probably at least once or twice a week. After running my errands I was waiting to pay with a 10 peso coin in my hand. As I was waiting a chilango gentleman (we can spot them immediately from their license plates) approached the attendant for his ticket. When the attendant handed him the ticket, the chilango asked the price per hour. The attendant pointed out the rate on the ticket at 15 pesos per hour. (I was surprised. I’ve never paid more than 10 pesos an hour.) The chilango nodded and walked toward the exit. The attendant kept me waiting as he watched the chilango walk away and then he silently nodded to the coin in my hand. I was charged LESS than a Mexican!

We’re not talking a lot of money here, but I was elated. Clearly, to some, loyalty overrides race or locals get preference over tourists. Whatever the case, little gestures like this make San Miguel feel more and more like home.

Tequisquiapan

The city of Tequisquiapan is about an hour and a half drive from San Miguel de Allende. Every year I’ve heard about their annual wine and cheese festival.

“I want to go,” said our friend Paola, “Let’s go tomorrow.”

“Somehow I don’t think an afternoon of drinking wine and eating cheese and then driving back is such a great idea,” I said.

“I’ll hire a driver,” she said; and did.

The next day Alex, Rodrigo, Pao and I pilled into Pao’s car with a quiet, competent driver at the helm. The ride there took a little longer because we had to stop at Pao’s apartment in Queretaro so that Pao could change shoes.

I liked the Tequisquiapan immediately. The narrow streets and architecture had a very European feel. People were well dressed and the town was very clean.

The festival was held in a big tent in the park, just steps from the town square. It felt kind of like a mini Oktoberfest except with wine instead of beer. And being from California I found the variety of wines offered to be very lacking. So I settled for buying a cheese and meat plate and a magnum of champagne. We pulled up stools around a wine barrel, visited with Pao’s co-workers who had joined us, and listened to the band.

“There’s Tory,” said Rod.

I’d wanted Tory, our architect, to meet Pao since she purchased some land a couple of years ago and eventually wants to start building. I’ve been very happy with Tory’s work, and as a tall, strapping young man, he is very easy on the eyes. I flagged him down and he came over to our barrel. Tapping Pao on the shoulder I said, “Pao, I’d like you to meet out architect Tory. Tory, this is Paola.”

Pao turned around and looked up at Tory. Extending a limp hand her eyes got big and her mouth dropped just a little too open. It took an awkward second for her to spit out, “Nice to meet you.”

We exchanged some pleasantries and a soft agreement to schedule something in the future where they could sit down and talk. As Tory walked away I turned to Pao. “Wipe the corners of your mouth Pao. You’re drooling.”
After we’d polished off the champagne we strolled into the center of town and found what is probably the best restaurant Tequisquiapan has to offer. And in honor of the festival, they just so happened to be offering a five course wine pairing dinner. The food was passable at worst and some courses were really wonderful. The same was true of the wine, and all for 350 pesos per person; a real bargain. Throughout the meal a Spaniard presented each wine and discussed its qualities and how it was best paired with the food.

The atmosphere was so upscale, as one expects from a wine pairing dinner, that I was surprised when one of the owners (a woman probably in her late 50’s) asked if she could have one of my cigarettes. The whole table stifled smiles as I said “Claro” (of course), but then we had to stifle our laughter as she proceeded to serve us our next course with a plate in one hand and the lit cigarette in the other. (So much for upscale.)

The driver proved to be a God-send as minutes after we got into the car, we were all asleep.

The next weekend Rod and I returned for lunch and some light shopping. We also went to the monument for the geographical center of Mexico. Rather unimpressive given some of the monuments that I’ve seen in Mexico. But at least we can say that we’ve been there.
In short, I’d say that Tequisquiapan is a nice place to visit. There is not a lot going on and one probably needs to bring one’s own party to have a good time. The town is known for its thermal waters and spa’s which we have yet to experience. But I think they have a golf course so we’ll probably be back.

English Language

After volunteer teaching English for a year, I found this little internet piece very on-point:

Reasons why the English language is so hard to learn:

1) The bandage was wound around the wound.
2) The farm was used to produce produce.
3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
4) We must polish the Polish furniture.
5) He could lead if he would get the lead out.
6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.
7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.
8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.
9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.
10) I did not object to the object.
11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.
13) They were too close to the door to close it.
14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.
15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.
16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail.
18) After a number of injections my jaw got number.
19) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.
20) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
21) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

There is no egg in eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. Quicksand works slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write, but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese?

Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend. If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it? Is it an odd, or an end? If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell? How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out, and in which an alarm goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible.

P.S. - Why doesn't 'Buick' rhyme with 'quick'?

Home Repairs and Upgrades

Anyone who owns a home understands that they can represent significant challenges in one’s life. Whether it is repairs or the never ending upgrades (where you put your personal touch on the property), it all boils down to time, money and lessons learned.

The last three days we have been without a phone or internet. The phone challenge is easily overcome by use of cell phones. However, I never realized how addicted I’ve become to the internet until I didn’t have it.

I felt cut off from the world. Not only was I unable to check my email but what about the weather? My daily horoscope? The news? The stock market? (Although not watching the stock market only proved to reduce my stress levels over the last three days.) I couldn’t google a recipe for “Duck Tacos” which suddenly seemed very important. I hardly knew what to do with myself.

What did I do before the internet? I guess I read newspapers and watched the news on TV. However, I don’t get a newspaper now and I’m not sure on what satellite channel I’d find the news. (I’m sure it’s there, national and international, but I just never watch it.)

Telmex (the telephone monopoly in Mexico) finally found the property and ran all new lines from the street to the house, so I’m back in business, both phone and internet. I had to ask Rodrigo if it is customary to tip a telephone repair person. He said yes, something like 30 pesos ($3 USD) but this was a big job so I planned to give a little more. However, the repairman left so quickly that I didn’t have the opportunity. Later, while sitting on the patio, I saw something hanging from the trees in front. It was the old telephone line. He’d just left it dangling. So he didn’t deserve a tip anyway.

The most annoying upgrade in the last year was the septic system. There is nothing quite as motivating as having your own business coming back at you through your shower drain. This was especially frustrating because when I bought the house I upgraded the septic tank. I was told that I wouldn’t need to pay any attention to it for 20 years. (My sister in the U.S. hasn’t had to do anything to her system since it was installed 40 years ago.)

We had to move out and give the maid and gardener the time off. (One can’t exactly live in one’s home without access to a toilet, or expect your staff to work without one either.)

Our friends Bob and Karen graciously allowed us to stay in their beautiful vacation home. However, it wasn’t much of a vacation for us because we had to go back and forth every day to take care of the dogs. “Tomorrow,” the plumber kept telling us – every day. So each day we’d take one change of clothes and one meal, in anticipation that we would be able to move home the next day. This went on for nearly a week.

After much snaking and digging up of the yard, the plumber’s verdict was that the septic tank had been installed backwards. So after more digging and installing of leach lines, the landscaping devastated, we moved home.

Two days later, it happened again; crap in the shower.

The plumber returned. The only option was to tear up the bathroom floor; the new bathroom tile work that I put in during the initial house renovation. The problem was roots in the old cement drain under the house. (Might this have been the initial problem that, had it been diagnosed properly might have saved my landscaping and a couple thousand dollars? The plumber didn’t charge us for this repair. I think he might have been a little embarrassed.)

Then there was the roof upgrade. Heavy rains meant towels and buckets throughout the house. After two months of pounding from dawn until dusk, with dust and little chunks of concrete raining down inside the house, we’re dry.

Not done yet. Electrical upgrade. It was explained to me that our wires from the transformer to the house were too small. This is why, whenever one would flush the toilet and the water pressure pump would kick in, the lights would dim and the stereo would shut off. (Really annoying at parties.) Underground lines had to be run from the transformer at the end of the road, to the front of the property and then down the property to the house; and then from the house to the casita. We can now flush with no interruption to music and my electric bill appears to be cut in half.

Oh, and then there was the barbeque roof that collapsed; but I’ve already written about that.

So while the house isn’t feeling as much of a bargain as it did originally, I’m hoping that I’m nearly done with repairs and the future will only be upgrades.

These, plus the casita upgrade, have all totaled over $60,000 USD within the last 12 months. So if you don’t see me traveling for a while, you know why. Come visit – bring food.

Hopefully the creek won’t flood and reach the house during the rainy season.

A Bad Day for Dogs (and the people who love them)

A few days ago, BG, our new Newfoundland puppy, was diagnosed with Parvo virus. Rodrigo consulted with other veterinarians in town and all he could do was to put her on an IV solution and wait. We canceled our scheduled trip to Cuernavaca for Rodrigo’s parents’ 35th wedding anniversary and settled in to watch and wait.

Yesterday our maid Mari’s adult son, Oscar, came by the clinic with Mari’s younger son’s (Rafael’s) new puppy. Oscar explained that the puppy had fallen off the roof patio. Upon examining the dog, Rodrigo found that it had a fractured neck and he had no option but to put it down.

Oscar didn’t want to tell his mother and asked Rodrigo to do so. Rodrigo didn’t want to either and asked me. I thought about what I’d want to say, “Mari, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you but your dog fell off the roof patio and fractured her neck. Oscar took her to Rodrigo and she had to be put down. I’m terribly sorry, but if you want to leave early, please do so. I understand.” However, I thought about my limited Spanish. It would come out more like, “Mari, I’m sorry but your dog is dead. Oscar bring her to Rodrigo and Rodrigo dead her because of the roof.” This would of course, have to be accompanied by some gruesome gestures and it still wouldn’t be clear.

“No,” I told Rodrigo, “I don’t have the language skills. It’s Oscar’s responsibility. He can tell her when she gets home.”

Last night I had just gone to bed when Rodrigo came in to the bedroom in tears. “We’re losing her,” he said.

I got out of bed and we both went to the bodega (storage room) where BG was caged with her IV solution. Her breathing was shallow and she appeared to be in a coma. Her soft puppy fur gave no evidence of her suffering, and we stroked her with tears in our eyes. About an hour later she passed on.

Rodrigo went to the computer and sent the following, poignant story that has been circulating the internet, to his friends:

Dogs Purpose, (from a 6-year-old)

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife, Lisa, and their little boy, Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn't do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home. As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker's death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, "I know why."

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation. He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?" The six-year-old continued, "Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.
Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in yourface to be pure ecstasy.
Take naps.
Stretch before rising.
Run, romp, and play daily.
Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shadytree.
When you're happy, dance around and wag your entirebody.
Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
Eat with gusto and enthusiasm.
Stop when you have had enough.
Be loyal.
Never pretend to be something you're not.
If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit closeby and nuzzle them gently.
Be always grateful for each new day.

ENJOY EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY

Coming Full-Circle

Rodrigo is back.

I won’t go into a great deal of detail, it is too personal. Suffice to say that I received an email from Rod about a month and a half ago, saying that he’d been doing a lot of personal development work and wanted to meet to discuss reconciliation. After two weeks I conceded, we met and have hardly been apart since.

In many ways, we’ve fallen back into old routines and social circles and it feels as if he never left; a comfortable familiarity. In other ways, there is a new level of maturity in the relationship and improved communication and negotiation. In short, we’re both happy but understand that a relationship is an ongoing process that requires communication and compromise on many different levels.

We are not living together yet (although he spends every night here) and I have some “unraveling” to do. For example, I had rented out the ranchito for five months beginning in November of this year. (I didn’t know where I was going to go but I was going to go somewhere.)

Additionally, since construction has started on the casita, there is no longer a dog house for his dogs. This little detail, however, did not prevent him from seizing an opportunity to acquire a new family member while working at a dog show in neighboring Queretaro.

Enter BG (for Big Girl).



BG is a three month old Newfoundland puppy who promises to weigh close to 130 Lbs. when full grown.

I explained to Rod that bringing BG to the ranchito is kind of like surprising me with a new roommate; a roommate who is not potty trained and likes to tromp through the flower beds.

But she is awfully cute, and I’ve agreed to try. And he’s agreed that no new dogs will magically appear. I guess that counts as compromise.

Valentine’s in San Luis Potosi

Pao and Alex and I were having dinner one night before Valentine ’s Day. “Alex,” I said, “Do you remember several years ago, when you put together that lonely hearts Valentine’s dinner at Market Bistro? What were we, 17 people? If you were to do that for this Valentine’s, how many would we be?”

Alex thought for a moment. “Three,” he said, “And we’re all sitting right here. Everyone else who was there is coupled, married or no longer in San Miguel. And we haven’t met any new single people.”

“That’s depressing,” said Pao. “How pathetic would that look? The three of us out to dinner together on Valentine’s Day.”

“Then let’s get out of town. We don’t want to run into any of our ex’s, potentially out on a date with their new squeezes.” I thought for a moment. “Victor! San Luis Potosi! Victor will be alone on Valentine’s . . . Mark is in the U.S. . . . They have plenty of bedrooms and it’s only two hours away.”

Suddenly Valentine’s Day wasn’t a depressing “thing” looming in our future. We got on the phone, called Vic and a plan was born. Alex and I would drive up on Thursday, Pao would schedule a sales call for Friday in San Luis and meet us there Thursday night. We’d bring our golf clubs and play a round at the country club.

Valentine’s dinner was at an upscale Chinese restaurant, surprisingly named “China Express”. It was a wonderful treat as we lack good Chinese food in San Miguel. (We have it; it just isn’t very good.)

San Miguel has a very nice, and challenging, golf course called Club Malanquin. But it is only nine holes. If we play on a weekday after 2:00 PM, it costs about 500 pesos. So on Friday in San Luis, for about 1,000 pesos, we played our first full 18 holes and finished just as the sun was setting. The course was in a gated community with about every style of architecture imaginable; the common thread being a lot of money. (This is clearly how the “other half” lives in Mexico.) We all had fun and I could tell that Pao and Alex were rapidly becoming addicted to the sport.

The next day we toured centro and stopped in to visit the new Hotel Palacio de San Agustin http://www.palaciodesanagustin.com I have not included any photos because none can compare to those on their website (I highly encourage you to click on the link). While we were sipping sodas in the lobby, waiting for our private tour of the hotel, Alex and Pao began flipping through a large photo book they found on one of the tables. The book contained high quality photographs of the best golf courses in Mexico.

“This is what we should do,” said Alex. “Travel around Mexico playing all these courses.” Pao agreed with him.

“Great,” I said. “I’ve gotten you hooked on the most expensive sport possible.”

The last night Victor and I left Pao and Alex talking in the courtyard while we ventured off to one of the local gay bars called El Greko. It was really my first time out since the break-up and I have to say that I enjoyed myself immensely. Quite apart from San Miguel, Gringos are not common in San Luis. Victor’s friends were educated, well dressed and friendly. Many spoke English and were anxious to practice. I received all kinds of attention, especially from a totally ripped personal trainer named Hugo. He was so cute I almost asked Victor if I could take him home (but I didn’t).

When Alex and I were driving home the next day, he asked me, “What was your favorite part of the trip?”

“Hugo,” I said. “It was just nice to be flirted with. It did wonders for my self esteem. I can’t stop smiling about it even though I’d never take it any further. For one, he’s about five foot nothing and we’d look pretty silly together. And, he doesn’t speak a word of English and lives with his family. I think we’d have a little trouble finding any common ground. What was your favorite part of the trip?”

“The golf,” Alex replied without hesitation. “It was so cool. We have to go back and do it again.”

And so I imagine we will.

Living in Language

One of the principle challenges of living in a foreign country is living in the language. Many of the mistakes that one makes simply make one unintelligible. Other mistakes can be embarrassing or worse, insulting.

My friend Mark has been living in Mexico for over 10 years. His Spanish has been described by native speakers, as the best Spanish that they have ever heard spoken by a gringo. He is fluent and at times he teaches Spanish. His story (courtesy of his partner Victor) is an example of how someone can become almost too comfortable living in another language.

It was the day of the signing of the private purchase-selling agreement for their new home in San Luis Potosi. In Mexico, the signing of this kind of document is a very serious and almost formal ceremony. The notario (or notary - a position more like an attorney in Mexico) is in attendance to oversee and document the transaction. Mark was being appropriately formal, using the “usted” form of speaking with respect to the elderly woman who was selling the home.

When the moment came to sign the documents, Mark took the pen and turned to the woman. “Los impuestos y los servicios están pagados?” he asked. (Are all the taxes and services already paid?) “Por que no quiero tener ningún tipo de PEDOS en el futuro.” (“Because I do not want to have any kind of FARTS in the future.”)

Everybody in the room looked at him with eyes wide open and an expression of OH MY GOD!!!... WHAT IS HE SAYING?!!! When Mark saw the looks on the faces in the room and experienced the deafening silence, he turned and asked, “Did I say something wrong?” Victor leaned in and said, “PROBLEMAS!” (“PROBLEMS! You do not want to have PROBLEMS in the future, Mark. You must say PROBLEMS not FARTS.”)

Of course he apologized to the crowd especially to the elderly woman.

To further enlighten me, Victor provided the following explanation: “In Mexico we use to say Pedos (farts) instead of problemas (problems), but we use this word ONLY with very confident people like family or friends and they know us very, very well. I do not recommend to use this word when you do not know the persons around you. You can get some free problems or being considered low class. Although is fun use it once in a while.”

The purchase of the property went off without a hitch. But we’re pretty certain that the story of the transaction will live on for years to come.

Similarly, I was out in the yard speaking with my gardener the other day. With dismay we were looking at the state of our garden. I wanted to say that the rabbits (conejos) are eating the lettuce. Instead I said, “Los cangrejos estan comiendo las lechugas.” (“The crabs are eating the lettuce.”) My gardener looked at me and smiled. “Creo que no,” he said, (“I don’t think so”) “Estamos son muy lejos del mar.” (“We are very far from the sea.”)



Similar words can also have very different meanings. For example, “cama” means “bed” while “cara” means “face”. A friend from Portland, Oregon, was visiting San Miguel recently. He speaks Spanish fairly well and stopped in to visit his old landlady. As they were talking her pretty young daughter entered the room. “Recuerda mi hija?” his landlady asked, (“Remember my daughter?”) “Si,” he replied, turning to the daughter, “No recuerdo su nombre pero recuerdo su cama.” (“I don’t remember your name but I remember your bed.”)

There was a tense moment before they figured things out and then had a good laugh.

Antigua

By plane, Guatemala City is less than two hours from Mexico City. From Guatemala City it is a 45 minute taxi ride to Antigua.

I had been told that the city of Antigua is like San Miguel de Allende was 20 years ago. In terms of size I would agree, but clearly not from an infrastructure standpoint as ATM machines and internet cafes dot the town. Luxury boutique hotels can run $250 USD and up per night. But there are deals to be found and the city has a somewhat bohemian feel. Tourists can be found from all over the globe.

Volcanoes serve as back drops to the city, providing dramatic views when one looks up. However, architecturally speaking, Antigua doesn’t compare to San Miguel, largely because nearly all the building are single story and the town is flat; not built on a raise like San Miguel. However, like San Miguel, the architecture is colonial. Therefore, much of the beauty is found behind the walls wherein beautiful courtyard gardens lie.

Our hotel, Mansion del Pensativo (http://www.mansiondelpensativo.com/), was a perfect example of a secret well kept from the street. The rooms were clean and comfortable with great linens. But the exceptional beauty lies in the common areas and lush garden by the pool. The service was amazing. After dinner we’d return to the hotel and the proprietor would build a fire in the fireplace of the living room, and we’d sit by the baby grand piano sipping wine until bedtime. Breakfast was served on the patio with a view to the gardens and the volcano beyond.

Where Antigua wins big is in shopping and fine dining. For shopping it is all about textiles; fabrics woven with beautiful, vibrant colors (I bought a hammock our first day in town.) For dining it is international cuisine, fresh seafood; lamb from New Zealand.

I was a bit concerned one day, when Alex and I were walking through town and we passed a sign posted on a door that read: “Wanted!! Travelers with diarrhea.” The sign went on to describe a person’s qualifying characteristics and the type of treatment one could expect to receive. I said a short prayer that this was not an omen of things to come.

Pao and Cynthia joined Alex and me shortly after we returned from Lake Atitlan. We took them to Nicolas (http://www.nicolas.com.gt/) for dinner.

“Tell us about Lake Atitalan,” said Pao, “Did you meet any of the other guests at Villa Sumaya?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia, diving into her unagi appetizer with her chopsticks, “What were they like?”

Swallowing a bite of seasonal greens with sliced pear and shaved fresh parmesan cheese in a balsamic dressing, I began. “I didn’t really talk to many people. I spent most of my time with my nose in a book. There was a mother-daughter couple from Australia who were quite fun. We had a couple of meals with them; and they shared the taxi back to Antigua with us. The others were largely part of a retreat group that travels all over together.

“I did talk to one woman at breakfast. She was from somewhere in Northern California. We were talking about how clear and beautiful the lake water was and she said that she’d heard that it wasn’t safe to swim, even though some of her group had. When I asked her why it wasn’t safe, she said it was because of some kind of bacteria in the water. I asked her if she was talking about giardia but she didn’t know. I explained that every body of fresh water, whether it be a lake, stream or river, in the Northern hemisphere has giardia. You shouldn’t drink it but it is perfectly safe for swimming. “Even for women?” she asked. That gave me pause because I had to take a moment to remember the anatomical differences that might have led her to ask the question. “Not if you have a watertight cooch,” I thought.

“You didn’t say that!” Cynthia exclaimed, dropping a piece of unagi and splattering soy sauce on Alex’s pants.

Pao was laughing, “Watertight cooch!” she repeated.

“No,” I said, “Of course I didn’t SAY that to her. I just thought it. But even if she doesn’t, I don’t believe that that particular part of the body leads to the intestinal tract where giardia causes problems. I just told her that I’m no doctor but I thought it would be fine.”

“How do you spell “cooch” anyway?” asked Pao. “Is it with a “c” or a ‘k”?

“I think it’s with a “c” said Alex. “You can probably just go to the internet and type in cooch.com with either spelling and see what comes up.”

We went on to discuss the subject and whether any not-exactly-watertight-orifices might lead to risk. But we had to agree to defer the question to someone more qualified. (We’ve yet to do so.)

Villa Sumaya

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?