For English, press "8" . . .

When I moved here, I jumped on the bandwagon of gringos living in Mexico and subscribed for (bootleg) Dish TV from the U.S. Tons of channels, nearly all in English. (Dish Network thought I lived in Texas.)

Rod got hooked too. We watched old seasons of Will and Grace, Friends, Scrubs; all those shows that I missed while I was going through my ex-pat transition phase.

Then, one day, it crapped out. We already had a six-foot satellite dish hanging on the side of our house. I was told that Dish Network had put up a new satellite with a smaller footprint and I’d need to upgrade to an eight-foot dish (for about $800 USD) or switch to Canadian television.

“Screw that,” I thought. Enough bootlegging American comforts. We live in Mexico and we’re going to have Mexican TV. So we switched to Mexican Sky TV for about $150 USD installation fee (with a two year contract and a tiny dish). We even went for the Hi-def service, only to find that so few channels are broadcast in Hi-def that it wasn’t worth the extra few pesos. But we are able to record programs (and fast-forward through the commercials) with the fancy box with the blue lights so I guess that’s sort of worth it.

I have to read the guide in Spanish. If the show is broadcast in any language other than Spanish, the guide says that it is English. (Try Japanese, French or Italian with Spanish subtitles; tough.) But it is enough for me. There are sufficient shows are in English and I’m not a big TV watcher. (But I think Rod misses his US television options.)

When I signed up with Sky, my Capital One credit card had expired. So I used my BofA credit card. Later I discovered that BofA charges and international transaction fee of about $5. That annoyed me. So I vowed to call Sky Mexico and change my credit card to Capital One.

I was daunted. Speaking Spanish is one thing; speaking it on the phone is another. For months I put it off. I’d move the task from one week on my calendar to another; each time rehearsing the speech in my head; “Necesito cambiar mi tarjeta de credito . . .” Ugh! It is only $5 a month, I’ll do it later.

I thought about asking Rod to make the call. But he usually tells me, “You can do it. Go ahead. You need the practice.” He’s tends to be right, as annoying as that is.

So, after months of procrastination, this week I decided to give it a try. I figured that, if all else fails I can hang up and no harm no foul. I rehearsed in my head. I dialed the number.

“Bienvenido a Sky. For English press “8.”

Well that was easy. I wish that worked with government offices and police officers. Maybe it does. I just haven’t noticed the button.

A Bigger Boat . . .or not . . .

(I didn't write this but I love it.)

A boat docked in a tiny Mexican village. An American tourist complimented the Mexican fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took him to catch them.

“Not very long,” answered the Mexican.

“But then, why didn’t you stay out longer and catch more?” asked the American.

The Mexican explained that his small catch was sufficient to meet his needs and those of his family.

The American asked, “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

“I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, and take a siesta with my wife. In the evenings, I go into the village to see my friends, have a few drinks, play the guitar, and sing a few songs. I have a full life.”

The American interrupted, “I have an MBA from Harvard and I can help you! You should start by fishing longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra revenue, you can buy a bigger boat.”

“And after that?” asked the Mexican.

“With the extra money the larger boat will bring, you can buy a second one and a third one and so on until you have an entire fleet of trawlers. Instead of selling your fish to a middle man, you can then negotiate directly with the processing plants and maybe even open your own plant. You can then leave this little village and move to Mexico City, Los Angeles, or even New York City! From there you can direct your huge new enterprise.”

“How long would that take?” asked the Mexican.

“Twenty, perhaps twenty-five years,” replied the American.

“And after that?”

“Afterwards? Well my friend, that’s when it gets really interesting,” answered the American, laughing. “When your business gets really big, you can start buying and selling stocks and make millions!”

“Millions? Really? And after that?” asked the Mexican.

“After that you’ll be able to retire, live in a tiny village near the coast, sleep late, play with your children, catch a few fish, take a siesta with your wife and spend your evenings drinking and enjoying your friends.”

And the moral of this story is: ……… Know where you’re going in life… you may already be there.

Blog on Hold

I’ve received a couple of complaints that I’ve not updated this blog in some time. Thank you both for complaining.

I’ve blamed it on Facebook in the past but now I have a couple of other excuses.

When I started the blog, it was a vehicle for me to express my wonder and amazement with a number of new aspects of my life; retirement, life as an ex-pat, the culture of Mexico, living in the country and falling in love. In reality, many things that used to make me wide-eyed are now routine. Few things surprise me anymore. The unusual seems usual now.

So that’s one part. The other is time. “You’re retired,” one might say. “You’ve got nothing but time.”

Funny thing, time. Aside from my housewife/husband duties, I’m also starting a new consulting business with a friend and ex-colleague in the U.S., I’m working on a book project, and then there is some volunteer work for charitable organizations that needs my attention now and then.

I’m not signing off forever. But I am taking a blog hiatus. I’d like to thank both of my fans for reading. I’ll be back eventually.

The Lighter side of Owen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I said.

“Oh good,” she said. “No offense.”



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

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

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

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

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

Soccer Meets the Happy Chicken

This is going to take a little explaining.

Pollo Feliz (Happy Chicken) is a rotisserie chicken restaurant chain. (Very popular, for reasons that escape me, in this part of Mexico.) Part of their advertising is to dress up a kid in a bright yellow chicken costume, outside the restaurant, to coax people in. One will frequently see this poor soul standing in the sweltering heat in the middle of the glorieta (roundabout) near the restaurant, waving his chicken-like wings. (A friend’s mother used to threaten her children when they misbehaved, that if they didn’t straighten up, she was going to enlist them as Pollo Feliz chickens.)

Yesterday, Mexico beat France 2 – 0 in the World Cup.

So, yesterday, as I’m driving down the hill to Mega (our big supermarket), I see a large group of green-soccer-shirt-wearing guys gathered in the middle of the glorieta. Intermittently, soaring above their heads, was the Happy Chicken kid. It was not clear whether the chicken kid was a willing participant or if they had just grabbed him and started throwing him in the air. Either way, it had to be a more exciting day than usual, for soccer fans, and the chicken kid. And this chicken finally got to fly.

Baloon

This nearly landed in our yard this morning. Given the name, do you think he might be a little off course?

Outside Looking In

What must we look like to those looking in, this strange gaggle of beach-goers?

Are we business executives, consultants, lawyers, bankers, inn keepers, entrepreneurs, veterinarians, personal trainers, restaurateurs, oil speculators or Hollywood producers?

Are we sexual deviants, queers, drag queen wannabees, evil lesbians, gold diggers, sugar daddies, hags and fags?

Are we pot heads, alcoholics, illegal and prescription drug abusers?
Or are we artists; painters, sculptors, writers, actors, musicians, landscapers and decorators?

And where do we come from? Are we from the North-West, the North-East, the mid-West, the South or Mexico? Are we from a diverse community where hippies, ex-hippies, paint splashed artists, escaped criminals, cougars and mummies collectively walk cobblestone streets?

If asked, I would say, “Yes, we are all of these things.”

We offer no apologies, we have no regrets. Together we form a unique collective of creative souls, an alternative family. We are moody, bitchy, opinionated and judgmental. We are also generous, forgiving, supportive and loving.

We are old, young, fat, skinny and buff. We are white and we are brown. We are bi-lingual, bi-cultural, bi-polar and bi-sexual. We have big dicks, little dicks, harry parts, shaved parts and apparently . . . large canopies.

Sometimes we get drunk and swing from trees, fall down, yell at police officers or give ourselves bad haircuts. Some of us break and bleed.

We love animals and when we can, we recycle and try to be “green”. We volunteer and attempt to help those less fortunate. We laugh and we cry.

So I would say to those looking in, try stepping in. Have a drink, a toke or a bump. Let your hair down, take your clothes off. All you need to gain acceptance is the ability to go with the flow, bring a sense of humor to the table and not take yourself too seriously.

We ask that you keep our secrets but not our money. That you bring a bottle, a pipe or a tiny spoon, but not the police. That you dress or undress for the occasion. And that you make a fool of yourself without requiring an ambulance.

One of my favorite quotes from an unknown author, is:
"Life is not meant to be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming - "WOW - What a ride!"

So you looky-loos, we were what we were and now we are what we are. Good luck putting a label on it.

Rodrigo’s Rose Garden

Finding things that will grow in this climate has been a challenge. Cactus, no problem, but otherwise, a bit of work.

Roses work well. Amazingly well although finding them is a chore; at least any kind of variety.

Rod wanted a rose garden. This really translates to, “I’ll plant them but you need to take care of them.” At the annual plant fair (Candalaria) we bought our first new rose plants. After picking out the appropriate spot, close to water and the right amount of sun, Rod set to planting. He had all the right tools but was having a problem breaking ground.

I have more than a few pounds on Rod so when I saw that he was struggling I decided to put my weight behind the pick on his behalf. First stroke, no problem. Second stroke and water began bubbling up from the ground. As much as I wanted to believe that we’d hit a natural spring only six inches below the surface, I knew better. I’d hit the water main. In fact, I’d hit the pipe dead center. I couldn’t have hit it better if I was aiming.

This, of course, happened on a Sunday during a three-day weekend. Try to find a plumber. So we shut off the water to the back of the property and continued working.

Caspa, our Labrador mix puppy, decided to eat the blossoms but since the first day, she seems to have lost interest.

So this is it. I know it is small but they are doing very well and if we continue to add more every year, we might have something in the future.


Our plumbers are here now, fixing the kitchen sink which involves tearing up the back patio and half the lawn. They hit the water main today so I don’t feel so bad.

Tetanus Shot

Another small town example; the 27-year-old Doctora who sewed me up in the emergency room is our maid’s niece. Our maid (Mari) has a photo of Rodrigo and me in her home (she asked for a copy of one we have). While the Doctora didn’t recognize me when she was sewing me up, she must have thought about it later and remembered the photo in her aunt’s house. (In the photo I’m wearing the same jacket that I was wearing that ominous night.) The Doctora (Claudia) called the ranchito (our phone number was part of my check-out process) and talked with Mari. She said that she called to see how I was doing. Interesting. I wonder if she does that with all her emergency room patients.

I didn’t go back to the hospital to have my stitches removed. I went to our regular doctor and German-Mexican friend, Ricardo. As I was having my stitches removed, I asked him if I should have a tetanus shot.

“They didn’t give you one in the emergency room?”

“I don’t think so. The only shots that I got were in my eyebrow. It has probably been 20 years since I’ve had one. Do you have the shot here?”

“No. The only place they have it is at the Centro de Salud in La Lejona.”

He charged me nothing for the consultation nor for removing the stitches. (He says that Rodrigo and I are family, although he is straight, married to a beautiful British woman and has a tri-lingual 10-year-old son.)

So after shopping for a dinner party we were hosting that night (including a five pound filet mignon for only $25 USD), I found my way to the Centro de Salud.

The waiting room was packed. I was standing in line at the entrance but people kept cutting in front of me and waiving little booklets in front of the staff. Maybe they had appointments. So finally, in my best Spanish, I asked a staff member if I was in the right line for what I needed. He told me that I was not and pointed to a desk in the corner of the lobby that was relatively un-crowded.

Being the only gringo in the place, I’m sure that I stood out like a sore thumb. So it was no surprise when a nurse stepped up to me and asked me what I needed. When I showed her the note from my doctor she started asking me questions; Did I have some kind of card? Did I have any records of my vaccinations? Had I ever had a tetanus shot?

“No,” “No,” and “Yes.”

She then took down my name, address and age, completed a form and gave me a little book as a record of my vaccinations. She led me into a very clean examination room and told me that the shot was to be in my “pompis.” So I dropped one side of my pants and showed her probably the whitest ass cheek that she’s ever seen in her life. (I thought for a minute that she was going to ask to borrow my sun glasses.)

She deftly administered the shot and explained that a little soreness the next day is normal. (It is amazing how much Spanish that I now understand and at the same time, how little that I speak.) When I asked her where and how I pay, she told me that it was free.

A tetanus shot, a little book for my records, out of there in 10 minutes, all for free. (Good thing, because the $25 dollar filet was waiting in the car.)

18 Stitches

San Miguel has been called, “The City of Fallen Women.” It might better be called, “The City of Falling Women.” This is not because of some high rate of indiscretion but rather because they actually physically fall on the cobblestone streets. One frequently sees women (and let’s face it, men too) in casts, wrist braces or special medical boots. This weekend I joined their ranks.

I was all by myself when I did a header on Zacateros street around 2:00 Sunday morning. Yes, I was drunk but not THAT drunk. The problem was those blasted steps from Umaran onto Zacateros. If they aren’t bad enough, there is a rain gutter in the street at the same point. And I should have known better to have been walking with my hands in my pockets. I had nothing to put out in front of me to break my fall.

I landed on my right eye and the frame of my glasses cut a nice gash above my eye. At the time, I didn't realize that it was so bad. I picked up my glasses and put my hand to my head and felt it wet. I walked to La Cucaracha (my old watering hole and most famous dive cantina in San Miguel) to get cleaned up and German, the bartender, told me I needed to go to the hospital. I said no, I just needed to clean my face. He then took me into the woman’s bathroom and pointed me toward the mirror. "Oh shit!" was all I could say. (Picture a scene from Halloween II here, alternating red stripes down my face and a large flap of skin hanging lose above my eye.)

There is a private gringo hospital but I have been told that for trauma care, one is better off going to the new General Hospital. With a wad of toilet paper pressed to my wound, I got in a taxi and said, “Hospital General por favor.”

There were few people in the waiting room and I was admitted immediately. When I was asked what happened I really didn’t have the language skills for the details that I would have liked to share so they had to make do with the Spanish equivalent of, “I am drunk and fall.” (They probably wanted to know if I’d been in a fight or mugged in case they needed to notify the police.)

A nice young lady doctor cleaned me up, gave me a couple of injections in the forehead and proceeded with the sewing task. (I should mention that this is the first time that I’ve had stitches since my appendix was removed when I was 11 years old.) The sensation was not entirely unpleasant. I think I actually dozed off for a few minutes.

During the entire process she was very friendly. But then, after the stitching was completed, she asked me if I had a wife. I said no, that I have a husband. After that her tone changed slightly and I detected a note of sarcasm. I was glad that she was done sewing me up by the time that she asked the question; otherwise she might have taken a little less care.

She gave me a prescription for antibiotics and an anti-inflammatory and sent me on my way. At the front desk I stopped to pay my bill. 150 pesos (about $13 USD). A taxi was waiting out front and I took it home.

The swelling began the next day and is only beginning to subside today. After removing the bandage, Rod counted 18 stitches. The scar starts above my eyebrow, passes through about half of it and finishes on the side of my face; kind of like a lightning bolt. (Rod says I just wanted to look like Harry Potter.) It is starting to become black and blue.

We had our regular doctor look at it today. He said that they did a good job at the hospital, but I’ll probably have trouble growing half my eyebrow back.

Some time ago I gave my doctor and his wife a hard time for not wearing helmets when ridding their motorcycles. And now they do. “Maybe you should wear one when you’re walking,” he told me. I guess he got the last word on that one.

Semana Santa (holy week) 2010

The seeds were planted at Christmas. A couple of Rod’s cousins were staying at the ranchito and we began to talk about how fun it would be to invite a bunch of family members here for a camping vacation. We just needed to decide what would be the best time of year.

Rod decided that Semana Santa was it; the kids are out of school and many of the parents take time off, and typically there is no rain. So he sent out an invitation to his family on his father’s side and we expected as many as 15 to 20 people might want to come.

“How many are we up to?” I asked.

“I don’t want to tell you; you might freak out.”

“Last you told me we were at 30. Anything over that is the same. I’m numb after that.”

“50.”

“Who even has 50 immediate family members!”

“That’s just my father’s side.”

“We need to order at least one porta-potty.”

Emails began flying back and forth. I was copied in all of them but they were in Spanish, too complicated and full of idioms for me to follow. I expressed my apprehension to a friend’s mother. “If they’re Mexican it won’t be a problem,” she said.

An Excel spread sheet arrived, with every family’s cooking and clean-up schedule. Breakfasts were the responsibility of each family individually; comida (the main afternoon meal) was to be divided by families to cook for everyone. I only had to cook when the first 20 people arrived on Wednesday and clean-up on Saturday. Rod had more assignments (mostly pertaining to barbequing because he is the grill queen) but I was only concerned about what I had to do.

The night before the first guests arrived, we had dinner at a restaurant with a friend who was visiting from Spain. Rod was up all night with food poisoning.

The next day I got to meet and great 20 family members and serve them comida while Rod could barely lift his head off the pillow on the sofa. When people began unloading I began reheating the spaghetti sauce that I’d had the good sense to prepare the day before. I enlisted help from the maid and eight-months-pregnant cousin Chelo to prepare the garlic bread and salad.

Comida came off without a hitch. Everyone seemed to enjoy my gringo meal and very little food, if any, was leftover.

The maid stopped the children from throwing rocks in the fish pond while the parents were setting up the tents. The kiddy pool was filling. In the mean time, I remembered that we had balloons leftover from previous parties and got the idea to start making water balloons. (I think I earned the award of best gringo uncle ever that day.)

I put the eldest child (14) in charge of building the campfire, brought out marshmallows for roasting and a guitar for anyone who could play. Everyone checked on Rod from time to time and he even made an appearance briefly; but then staggered back to his couch. I stayed up until 11:00 PM, conversing completely in my bad Spanish the entire time. I fell into bed exhausted.

The next morning we awoke to children playing in the hammock outside our bedroom door. By the time I was showered and dressed, more people were starting to arrive. I walked out into the kitchen and was thrilled when Rod’s three-year-old nephew (who had left Cuernavaca at 5:00 AM with his family) jumped into my arms.

The days began to wash together after that. The porta-potty arrived, tents kept springing up, the front of the house became a parking lot. People took orders and ran to the supermarket, an uncle bought a pump and figured out how to string all the hoses together and wind them around the yard in order to solar heat the kiddy pool. A “Slip and Slide” was a huge success.


I received a lot of, “Charles do you have this,” or “Where can we find that,” but all in all, I was so impressed by the way everyone chipped in while at the same time being so respectful of our space. They would hardly enter the main house without permission. (But the casita was a zoo.) Food arrived in piles and I engaged in recycle education (not available in Mexico City). One couple asked what score I gave them (1 to 10) on their recycle prowess. I gave them a 4. After that they became the recycle guards and quickly moved up to a 9.

I learned a lot. I learned that you don’t have to be “on” the entire time. It is ok to nap or to find a private corner, jumping into the fray when the mood strikes you. I learned to delegate, I learned to let go and let whatever happens, happen. I learned that your Spanish doesn’t have to be perfect. I learned that a child in need is a child in need and one doesn’t need to be their parent to take care of them. (Sometimes it was difficult to determine which child belonged to whom.) I learned that in a family this large, if something is broken, someone will know how to fix it. (More than once I saw someone walking across the property with a toilet plunger.) I learned to play dominos.

They also understood the economic impact of such an event and everyone chipped in to pay for the porta-potty, the beer I’d bought in advance and even for the gas to heat the hot water for showers and such. I tried to refuse but they would not take “no” for an answer. (I also received gifts of wine and chocolate.)

Despite my occasional feeling of being overwhelmed, I was sad when the cars began to pack up and leave. And my heart melted when a carload of children yelled, “Adios Tio Charles,” as they drove off.

I’ve received several Facebook messages from Rod’s family, thanking us for hosting the event. One cousin went so far as to say, “Me and my family will remember this weekend for the rest of our lives.”


When it is all said and done, I find this an amazing tribute to Rodrigo. The fact that he is so loved by his family that all these couples, these aunts, uncles, cousins, all married in the Catholic church, would pack up their camping gear and children to spend a long weekend with him and his gringo boyfriend.

So if anyone tries to tell you that Mexico has a backwards, macho, un-accepting culture, tell them to put this story in their pipe and smoke it.

A Non-Disposable culture

(First let me apologize for being so remiss about blog entries. I blame it on Facebook. Once I started using Facebook it simply became easier to post photos there, and to limit myself to one sentence musings. I’ll try to get better.)

About 20 years ago, I bought a vacuum cleaner; an Electrolux Ambasador III. At the time, it was a pretty top-of-the-line canister model.

Vacuuming in Mexico doesn’t seem to be common. In general, carpet isn’t common. Tile and area rugs seem to be the norm here. The tools of choice are brooms and mops.

When shopping for vacuum cleaners in San Miguel, I found little more than glorified shop vacs, and those that were a more substantial, cost a fortune. So when I moved my things from the States, I brought my trusty Electrolux.

After my maid learned how to vacuum without the Electrolux eating the area rug fringe, she became quite attached and began vacuuming everything from dog beds to drapes. But then one day the “power nozzle” began to make a terrible noise and the brushes stopped turning. I was a little cavalier about it, and figured that she’d just have to use the other attachments.

Rod and I returned from a trip out of town to find that our maid’s husband had disassembled the power nozzle and found the source of the problem; a faulty belt. He had also looked all over San Miguel and deduced that no such belts were to be found here. The power nozzle was disassembled and a ziplock bag lay on the counter, the contents labeled, “tornillos de la aspiradora” (screws for the vacuum cleaner). From this I gleaned that the maid really wanted her power nozzle.

I set to work on the internet, researching belt replacements. And after receiving one incorrect belt, I finally found, ordered and received the correct belt. Today I reassembled the power nozzle and the maid was off and running.

What struck me about the entire process (which took me about five months) was how different I’ve become. In the U.S., I would have thrown the whole thing out and bought a new one. The culture is different here. Why would one throw out a perfectly good piece of equipment if only one part is not working? It is also an economical thing. It is cheaper to fix something than to replace it. I also look at it from an earth-wise standpoint. The old vacuum didn’t end up in a landfill somewhere.

Call it a cultural difference, call it the economic crisis, call it what you will. But I was patient, enduring (maybe a little cheap) and very proud of myself today. (But there is an extra screw in the bag and I don’t know where it goes.)