Life Style Refugee – The Ajijic Blog

My visitors?

My mother does not succumb to the challenge that small tasks present. She takes in stride that things that should be easy–sitting, standing,  tedious little exercises that were automatic once but have the nerve now to be major undertakings, each movement requiring it’s own strategy session. She meets these pain-in-the-ass negotiations with valor. “Never surrender!”  she seems to say.  Or actually does say, thumping the floor with an African spear she borrowed and is presently using as a hiking stick.   “Shit a fat brick!” she may holler when she’s in a less Churchillian mood.

She is saved from being just another courageous old lady- ho hum!- by her delight in technology, and idles away the hours fiddling with her i-phone to bring up google earth or take her turn at international online backgammon.  Much more interesting, in my opinion, than one of those tiresome old “rappin” grannies that wear converse sneakers and hang out in discotheques.

My niece is here with her, she of the gold skin and gold hair, hair that makes anything she sticks or clasps into it, no matter how innocent, instantly  look like it was purchased in a sex shop in Amsterdam. If she were to tie a black velvet ribbon into a bow in that hair, she would be arrested.  My stepson, who is thirteen, isn’t sure he’s allowed to be in the same room as his step-cousin, although he doesn’t know why, any more than a herd of buffalo knows why they have the urge to stampede before an earthquake.  She likes to travel with my Mom and is perfectly comfortable with the assortment of innovative approaches that Mom employs to get out of a chair, displaying not a trace of embarrassment,  something I find charming in a nineteen year old.

The last time my niece visited, she lugged a steamer trunk with her that cost the price of a new wardrobe at the airline counters both coming and going in extra weight charges. I was pleased to see her strolling out of customs this time with a more modest suitcase, thinking that she had internalized my lectures about how to pack.  Now that I ‘ve seen the collection of Ed Hardy string bikinis she brought, I can’t think why she needed a suitcase at all.

As miniature as they are, they weren’t small enough to satisfy the wardrobe requirements of a “Pimps and Ho’s” ball that she was somehow invited to attend her second night here. She borrowed some trashy lingerie from a friend to wear to the party. Not because she didn’t bring any underwear, although it’s entirely possible that she didn’t, but because whatever she did or didn’t bring wasn’t sufficiently “ho-ish” to be her costume. Fortunately,  her local friend had a sufficient supply of bustiers. I don’t spend too much time wondering how it’s possible that she was invited to such a ball, or that she has such a friend, several thousand miles from her home.

The thirteen year old is in a class by himself. He lives with his mother and stepdad in England.  I entertain him and myself by finding other thirteen year olds, and studying them with an anthropologist’s eye, wondering how it’s possible that a kid from Brighton Beach and a kid from Ajijic, Mexico can start talking gibberish before introductions are even finished. “Pixels!” they say. “Call of Duty 4! GTA, Halo!, ” This much I sort of can make out. The rest sounds like football signals or spy code.  “OPM! Megabytes! 42! ” and then once in a while a word that I can definitely recognize, along the lines of  “Boobies!” and oh boy, then we’re back in a world that technology has touched not at all, the world where a word like “pencil dick” will get them rolling in the aisles, just like it did when I was thirteen, and when Mom was thirteen.

These characters are in my world this month, to my great joy. I may not get much blogging done.  This month I may spend living with my beloved knuckleheads rather than writing about them. But next month will be here soon enough.

Our little village abounds with urban myths of well heeled widows taking up with strapping young Mexican gardeners. One minute these guys are sweating in the sun, laying their, er, sod. I can’t even picture it without hearing imaginary porn music.  The next thing you know the senora is coming out on to the terraza with a big glass of limonada and a gleam in her eye. Chapter Two? The gardener moves into the big house. His latin machismo soon surfaces,  and he starts bossing the senora around. She is such a slave to passion that when he starts staying out all night all she can do is beg, clutching his leg and being dragged across the floor while he sneers in contempt and shakes her loose so he can go spend her money on some tart at the cantina, and the senora  starts drinking straight tequila. The next thing you know, you never see her for lunch any more.  According to the local grapevine, this pattern repeats itself all the time.

As common as these tales are, there seems to be a little something extra in the water at the moment. There’s been a recent spike in the number of stories regarding single women and their gardeners. It seems that the notion of  this kind of big house/ field hand carrying on doesn’t have the salacious firepower that it once did, and the local gossips are trying to make up for in quantity what they are missing in quality.  Last week, I heard three different gringa-and-the-gardener stories, which is pretty hot for the local demographic. We’re  kind of a small town to be having  this widows gone wild action all over the place. Frankly, I’d have a hard time swallowing three patronas falling for their gardeners in greater Los Angeles, never mind  the village of Ajijic.

Perhaps I’m not the only one to raise an eyebrow at the sudden uptick in ravenously horny homeowners who can’t watch their lawn getting watered without dropping their negligees.   I notice that recent stories include the addition of  details that are getting juicier all the time. One thrilling variation includes the added twist of the faithful servant caring for the senora when she twisted her ankle, and subsequently getting her addicted to heroin! How awesome is that! Now he is rumored to be keeping her docile with regular injections  of  exotic drug cocktails, and is moving her hand across the signature lines of various deeds and titles while she is nodding out in an opiate  coma. Once he gets the combination to her safe, well, I wouldn’t think much of her chances then….

Some of these chestnuts come my way in my job as a realtor, usually with the hopeful notion that it will result in an undervalued property, as in “I heard about a house in Chula Vista? where the woman is having an affair with her gardener? and she’s signed over all her property to him because she’s mad at her children for not coming to see her, and he doesn’t know how much it’s worth, so when she dies, he’s going to sell it for cheap!” Hope springs eternal, is all I can say.

Believe me, if you can’t take this level of small town drama, you are not ready for Lakeside. I  personally thrive on it,  the more lurid the gossip, the better. Unfortunately, the element that  interferes with my ability to suspend reality long enough to enjoy these stories is the fact that’s it’s always the gardener. Jesus, not my gardener! Nobody in their right mind would have an affair with him, no matter what kind of drugs he was packing in his truck along with the WeedWacker and pruning shears. All the gardeners I know are completely retarded, or have glass eyes, or —in the rare cases where they are under 50–would rather shoot themselves up with drugs than have to throw a schtup into one of the old babes I lunch with. Give me a break. There are a few brown eyed  hunks with flashing white smiles driving around in Chevy Avalanches, but believe me when I tell you, they know how much the land is worth. They know what they’re worth, too, and it’s usually a bundle, owing nothing at all to any dame in a negligee with a dope habit.

There is, of course, a kernel of truth to these stories. Somewhere along the line, some gal with a taste for margaritas in the afternoon probably did start a little something with her gardener, who was probably close to her own age and may have been with her for thirty years, and maybe her kids did neglect her.

The other dramatic structure that local gossip is likely to take involves lesbians, usually on motorcycles, who come into town and  break up marriages with their irresistible lesbian powers. Like cobras hynotizing helpless birds, these black leather clad fembots have only to crook a finger and cast a certain sort of glance, and wives who are about to celebrate their golden anniversary are unable to prevent themselves from packing up and moving into the poolhouse with them, a slave to unnatural sex that couldn’t be imagined before these mighty sapphists rolled into town.  A key element of this story is that everyone has sex with the ravishing seductress, who isn’t particularly fastidious about gender preference. Obviously, sooner or later the husband loses his mind and kills the lesbian, the wife, himself, or some combination of the three.

That story actually has a little  more than  a kernel of truth, happening pretty much just that way back in the ’80′s, when all the good stuff was happening around here. Frankly, the real story of that episode is even more sensational than the recycled fiction that gets handed around along with the gardener gossip, as it had the added zest of communism and theatre people.

There are local webboards that supply us with a cyber version of the back fence, but I never get any good stories there. The gossip on the internet is not more reliable than the stories I hear from  flesh and blood nut jobs all over town and it  seldom has the color and dash that I love so much. Who can get worked up over exterminators and visas? Bah. The internet isn’t always such a giant step forward.

But I’m sure glad to have it, so that I can share the really good stuff with you. Just between us, right?

My adventures with the furniture salesman last week are only the latest chapter in an ongoing saga with our refrigerator. Some months ago, it started behaving badly. The ice in the freezer melted, and the refrigeration compartment, while perhaps a degree or two cooler than the outside temperature in the hottest month of the year, was obviously struggling.

I was raised by intellectual parents in the gleaming atomic age. By the time I was old enough to own my own appliances, the world had divided into them and us, them being qualified to keep things running, us… not.
I know that at the first sign of trouble with anything significant, I’m going to have to initiate diplomatic relations with an alien, but necessary, group of redneck fix-it types who know about repairs. Members of this intimidating nation are free to tell me–and charge me–whatever they like, because I’m completely at their mercy. It has always been a more comforting option to just go buy a new car than to live with the anxiety of trying to keep one running after it starts having problems,and staying awake at night wondering if the guy in the jumpsuit is laughing at me behind my back.

People who move here and then complain about the “manana” attitude and whine about a shiftless work ethic strike me as highly suspicious. In the States, as a realtor, I was held hostage by workmen too numerous to count, plumbers, electricians, heating-and-air-conditioning guys, repair people of all stripes. As for the Manana attitude, well, the only way I ever knew where any of my handy -man type guys were is because I happen to attend AA meetings myself. It took precision timing, but I developed a strategy that involved catching a painter on his way back from a binge. If they’d been attending meetings and managing to accumulate some sobriety for a few months, I’d give them a wide berth, so great was the likelihood that they were about to pick up a bottle and go on a bender. None of this would have been so harrowing, if it weren’t for the fact that it cost hundreds of dollars every time one of these characters got involved, and you were never sure what they were doing, or if it would work, or if by the time you needed some warranty work you’d be able to find them again without calling Dog the Bounty Hunter. And the idea that they were more likely to show up when they said they would than the guys I’ve dealt with in Mexico is just ludicrous.

My observation here in Mexico is that there are three possible phases involved in a repair. If you’re lucky, the problem will be resolved in Phase 1, which is the guy that you called shows up on time and fixes the problem, charging a miniscule amount, thirty pesos or something.  I’m here to tell you, that happens far, far more often than not, and a whole helluva lot more than it ever did in the States. If it doesn’t, you move on to the second phase. This only happens if the original repair was unsuccessful. The repairman returns. After this, things can go in a couple of directions. People here are awfully, awfully good at what they do, and they will do it right the first time if they know how. There’s some wiggle room here for human error, of course. If that’s the case, it will be immediately spotted and corrected. If it’s not, you enter Phase 2b. This is where the gifted repair guy has taken his best shot and is about to start making stuff up,and down the rabbit hole you go. We had been stuck  in 2b for a while with the extended family of father, brothers, sons, and wives– They are the Flying Wallendas of major appliance repair –that are responsible for keeping local refrigerators running.

The problem with this phase is that most Mexicans would rather commit ritual suicide than give you bad news, so they’ll try anything, but at some point, they move into Phase 3. That’s when the repair person has exhausted what he knows and what he can make up, and the object still doesn’t work. At this point he’s smart enough to quit showing up, even though we’re not smart enough to quit calling and bitching. It is probably the uninformed gringotard who has been graduated to this phase without receiving the memo that is responsible for all the kvetching about “manana.”

There came a moment when the refrigerator had been muscled out onto our front terrace so that it could be worked on by repairmen who, having entered Phase 3, abandoned it there. The freezer was stocked, not with ice cream and frozen vegetables, but with milk and fruit. In other words, it was now being used as an auxiliary refrigerator. Which made a total of three, because there was also a blue igloo chest sitting in the kitchen where the fridge was supposed to be. It was a low moment. Generally, I am perfectly convinced of the rightness of our move to Mexico, but cut me some slack. I’m a 52 year old woman, and subject to, er, fluctuations in mood. The multiple unsuccessful attempts to fix the refrigerator were making me feel anxious,  helpless.  I would have liked to go buy a new one. However,we had just gotten back from ten days at the beach. It’s not a great time to be replacing big ticket items. While I was mulling this over, a prehistoric looking spider, probably imported from the Puerto Vallarta jungle in the trunk of Bruno’s 1991 Taurus, ran across the porch.  Worse! Now I was a person with a cooler in the kitchen, a refrigerator on the porch, a car from the last century, and giant hairy spiders running around loose. I felt that moving to Mexico was a colossal mistake, that I had sacrificed any chance of every achieving anything, taken a left turn when I should have gone right. I felt broke, a failure, and that, more than a loser, I was a loser living in freaking Mexico. Uber Loser!

In a scenario that didn’t need any help to depress me, there was a pair of jeans sticking out of the fridge and revealing a healthy slice of ass crack, but neither belonged to Javier Castellenos, the local appliance repair man who had gone missing. No, the jeans, and the crack, belonged to my husband, who–coup de grace!–was trying to fix the ice box himself. For some reason, that was the last straw. Something about my husband trying to fix a broken refrigerator made me feel as though we were teetering on the brink of disaster.

Ah, don’t worry, there’s a happy ending! Like I said, mood swings.

Bruno has more experience than I with this whole pattern, because he drives a 20 year old car that has been driven into a horse. At this very moment he’s chasing down Chui, who is responsible for the day to day upkeep of our valiant 1991 Ford Taurus, in spite of his complete lack of qualification for such a job. Or any job! He lives outside the network of competent repair people that are the subject of this post, believe me. He tends to leapfrog into Phase 3, but he’s been with us for a long time.  Chui obviously neglected some vital step when he painted the car, as that paint is now peeling off in long strips.

For some reason that has never bothered me, but the whole refrigerator thing caused me to  panic. Here’s the happy ending; Bruno fixed the refrigerator. Returning to some joyous boyhood passion for tinkering, forgetting that we don’t have the necessary clearance from the brotherhood of redneck repair guys to do this kind of work, using some common sense, he fixed it. It’s sitting back where it’s supposed to be, making ice cubes like crazy–we both grin at each other every time we hear another batch thunk into the receptacle. It makes me feel like he, like we, can do anything. That we are self sufficient, that we are not intimidated by guys showing their butts. We  show them ours!

That, no I didn’t miss my chance by moving to Mexico. Far from being my undoing, is the making of me.

On Thursday, June 24 of the year 2010, at approximately 2:30 pm, a Mexican man was rude to me. I know the time and date because, in a country that values courtesy as much as Mexico does, to be treated badly by a salesperson is on the level of a total eclipse of the sun.    I don’t think I’ve ever even met an impolite Mexican,  so bumping into a rude salesperson had a lot more impact than if I was shopping in New Jersey for example, or Paris.

Traffic around here is kind of a separate category, of course. To the uninitiated, drivers in these parts might seem a little rude. But then, to the uninitiated, professional wrestling might look like fighting.  Once the new motorist in Mexico understands that driving is a sport, like paintball,  the existence of rules of engagement become clear.

Generally speaking,  Mexicans are  gentle and well mannered to a fault.  So you could have knocked me over with a feather when the kid in question, an employee in a local furniture store who was obviously having a psychotic break, started having a big conniption at me. I stood frozen in horror as  he made a spectacle of both of us,  hopping around like that cowboy cartoon character Yosemite Sam and hollering nonsense about how business is done in this country, using one hand to hitch up the brown polyester pants that kept slipping down to pool around his thick soled shoes  while he stabbed the finger of his other in the general  direction of my bosom.  He was short, too short for the pants,  and way, way too short to be feinting and jabbing in the neighborhood of any obstacle so formidable as my bosom, especially when it’s corseted up for a day in town.

” Do I want you to call the police? Is that what you said?’  I couldn’t believe my ears.  ” Dude, get a grip on yourself! Why would you call the police? I just want to buy a refrigerator! Stop jumping around!” Behind him, Bruno twirled a finger at his temple in the universal sign for crazy, and mouthed the words “World Cup” at me.

I don’t think it’s FIFA fever though, as rampant as that is.  Everyone around here is in a pretty good mood about World Cup*.  I felt a momentary cold twinge of  sadness when it occurred to me that maybe we were going to start experiencing hostility from the local folks over the whole Arizona thing, but in general our hosts here are able to separate us from our knucklehead countrymen up North. No, I’m definitely leaning toward psychotic break.

I have been re-introduced to the joys of good manners since we moved here. Etiquette of the kind that I remember being taught from childhood books, and that was later replaced by “entertaining.” It’s a lovely thing, elegant and satisfying for it’s own sake. It makes you remember that civilisation has more to offer than making money and humiliating retail personnel.

There is a wave that is used, a gesture that seemed somehow aggressive before I was familiar with it, like something Ralph Camden might do with his hand as he bellowed “To the Moon, Alice!”   It involves a carefully calibrated rotation and the use of the back, not the palm, of the hand. It is a gesture of respect and acknowledgement.  Now that I’m used to it,  I am thrilled whenever I receive such a wave, which strikes me as being as  refined and dignified as a court curtsy. I like to give it, as well, and my arm has a bobblehead quality to it as I rotatate and wave my way around the village.

If I have the blues, a stroll to my village plaza is a guaranteed cure. The friendly nods, the tip of cowboy hats, the knots of villagers who sing  “Buenas Tardes” in unison, that cool hand gesture when I let a driver have the right of way, the  gracious bows delivered by old abuelas in their flowered rayon skirts and mantillas and knee high support hose. No matter how sour my mood when I leave the house, immersion in the good manners of my village will soothe me.

So what went wrong in  the furniture store? It was just a negotiation that took a nasty turn, and I extricated myself  as handily I could.  The price on the appliance didn’t match the one in the computer, it was one of those things, and I admit I got a little pompous. The salesman was out of control, and although it’s hard to resist the desire to one up an opponent in that kind of confrontation (I’m a big one for rearing back and puffing up my aforementioned rigidly corseted chest and saying something stupid like “Do you know who I am?” as if I might actually  have some leverage in a Mexican furniture store, which I most certainly do not).  I knew the event was an aberration, so it was easy for me to avoid getting caught up in it, to let it go.  In addition, as empty as the threat was, I wasn’t about to let the police get involved, even though we both knew they probably would have delivered a beating to the guy for calling them and interrupting their poker game.  I’m less interested in being right than in being happy,  and  keeping a low profile, in my opinion,  is one of the secrets to a contented life in Mexico.

On our way down the street to purchase a refrigerator at Coppell, the arch rival of Muebles America (oh, come on. it’s one thing to rise above, but I wasn’t about to give any money to those cretins) I said to Bruno, “Wow, that guy was  having a really bad day.”  “Eh,” Bruno responded with a shrug. “He’s probably from California.”

*they were when this happened, I should say. The Argentina match was yet to be played

I fear that I must be harboring  unconscious  hostility toward my husband, buried deep below the tickled affection that is all that I’m aware of when I look at him.  What other explanation could there be, if not a wide streak of passive aggression,  for travel plans that year after year  either bring us home the day before the village fiesta begins, or have us scheduled to depart the day after it ends? This year Bruno looked at me, unbelieving, when we got home just in time for the first barrage of cohetes in the plaza a block  from our house that announces the beginning of the nine day spectacle. I couldn’t believe it myself. After a week with two college girls in Puerto Vallarta and a long drive home, the last thing we wanted to hear was the communally owned loudspeaker system crackling to life with  brassy ranchero music .

Yes, I know I sound like a party pooper.  But listen, a Mexican village fiesta doesn’t have romantic guitar trios on the stage playing “Cielito Lindo.“   I wish. No, to get the village whipped into a party mood, thirteen or fourteen flashy Mexican men decked out in leisure suits over nylon shirts depicting lurid desert sunsets will take the stage and arrange themselves into a big brass section that features, for the love of God, an effing sousaphone.  And that is along with trombones, trumpets, clarinets, saxes, snare drums, cymbals, and an accordion,  and the music they play is….well, if you can imagine a salsa band and a polka band both playing  simultaneously, you’ll be in the ballpark.  I like  guitars and I like Mariachi music. I like Cumbia and Salsa and Bolero. I’m actually kind of a Mexican music aficionado. But Jesus, when they get that sousaphone  involved, and the squeeze box, when they start mixing the traditional Mexican folk music with German oom pah pah,  I draw the line.

My friend Anita gave me a pitying look  at my birthday lunch yesterday—  I showed up wearing all the largesse showered upon me by my darling friends, the earrings and fans, rebozas, a necklace to hold my reading glasses. Wanting to show my gratitude, I draped it all on myself until I looked like a dowry being delivered to some far eastern court, but the finery couldn’t hide my exhaustion.  When she heard me describing how I had heard the rattle of the Aztec dancers outside my gate, and been too apathetic to even investigate she nodded wisely and observed that “The bloom is off the rose.”

But no. My love affair with Mexico is as passionate as ever, it’s just that I’m getting old.   This curmudgeonly attitude toward music signals my age more powerfully, I think,  than the network of creases and lines on my face that bear witness to a whole lot more than sunbathing. But even if I still had my taste for loud discos and rock concerts, a Mexican fiesta patronales is in a class by itself. It not only the music. The whole nine days of  fireworks, rides, the peddlers stalls filled with smuggled and pirated goods in colors that make you squint and throw your hands to your eyes in the manner of shielding them from a nuclear explosion,  the barking dogs.  By the time the parade danced down the street outside my house, I was numb.

In my defense, it was the last day of this annual jamoboree,  and it had been extended for tw0 days to accommodate the weekend. I was sitting lethargically on an ottoman in my living room, too exhausted to think of anything to do when I heard  the gourds  rattling–from their sound, I guessed they were at the top of our block. There was plenty of time to get to my gate to see the desfila, and I felt guilty for not being able to muster up the energy to go look.  I love the miniature Friar Tucks in their brown  robes that represent our St. Anthony. I love the teenage beauty queens in hoop skirted prom dressed waving from the back of some uncle’s pick up truck.  I especially love the indigenous dancers wearing feathered headdresses and moth eaten leopard skins  and, bringing up the rear, our village band with it’s beloved tuba playing a bouncy mash up of who knows what.  Really, I love all these things, but on this occasion, I had just had it.

Not to worry! In high school, my Dad would comfort me during the meltdown of one of my great loves by reminding me that boys were like buses , another one comes along every twenty minutes. Had we lived in Mexico then, he could have freshened up the analogy by using parades. And there is indeed, another one coming along, if not in twenty minutes, certainly very soon. I might organize one myself, just to celebrate the end of the fiesta.

Oh dear. Beach vacations have historically had the  ability to cast a spell that drenches the lowest rung of  service workers in sex appeal, transforming restaurant sailors with fish sticks on a tray into navy seals and fishing guides that wear bathing suits as underwear into rock stars. That’s just the way the beach is, and although, with the wisdom of maturity,  I am mostly immune to the condition these days, (inoculated, no doubt,  by the dozens of  unsuitable love affairs that made my youth so much darn fun ) given the right conditions I can still feel symptoms.  Going to Puerto Vallarta with two dazzling brand new college graduates constitutes the right conditions.  Celebrating their achievement with a sunset ride on a pirate ship that has an open bar and boy dancers doing sword fights, well,  all I can say is that the wisdom of maturity has no place on a pirate ship.

Some years ago, my older step daughter was shopping for a formal,  an event which inspired the first of many moments of the vertigo that comes from aging ungracefully, when you realize civilization has actually made some dramatic advances in your lifetime. It occurred to me that neither the fabrics that prom dresses were being made of, nor the lingerie to go with them, had been invented when I was in high school. I had the same sensation on the pirate ship. Boy, there was nothing like that around when I was looking for it, I can tell you that! Good looking Mexican twenty somethings swooping around with daggers in their teeth and a deejay spinning Sex on the Beach (with it’s compelling chorus;  ” Champagne! Mojito! Tequila! Boom Boom!”)  while the sun sets in the Pacific and fireworks are sent up off the bow. If you can imagine a higher goal than getting one of the swashbuckling staff to run your panties  up the mast along with the Jolly Roger in a situation like that, I defriend you.  Not my panties, obviously, because I’m past all that, and also because my foundation garments are made of stern stuff these days.

It turned out that my darling girls  are themselves made of pretty stern stuff, and had no problem whatsoever keeping their wardrobe in place . They don’t have anywhere near the degree of toxicology required to get up to shenanigans like I did back in the day, and it turns out, they have wisdom of their own. But they still felt the love! By the end of the week the three of us were exhausted from falling in love with ATV drivers, zip line tour guides, waiters at Senor Frog’s, jet ski rental clerks, time share salesmen, and of course pirates whose English vocabulary consisted of the word “Yar”.  Which, looking back, they may well have thought meant “Nice to meet you.” My husband watched all this with amusement. And amazement, I’m sure, that his middle aged wife, charged with chaperoning his precious daughter, could regress so horribly into her own round heeled and rum soaked juventud.

Luckily, the girls didn’t travel back to my village home with me. The first week of June is when my village celebrates its fiesta patronales, the nine day hootenanny celebrating St. Anthony de Padua,the saint for whom our pueblo is named.  And although I hate saying good-bye to any of my step-children, I  admit that I’m relieved not to be gambling with my precious baby’s virtue on some of the characters that are loitering around the village square right now, especially not if she’s got margaritas and pirates on the brain. The enchantment of our week at the beach is powerful enough to make even the wretches who operate the tin tilt-a-whirl that travels from village to village for fiestas  look kind of  sexy, and if there’s an animal out there more raffish and uncouth than a Mexican carnie, I’d like to meet it. But only in broad daylight.

I’m glad the fiesta is here, although these parties are normally a hideous thorn in the Gringo side, with their 15 piece bands cranking up at 11:00 at night and drunken cowboys napping on the sidewalks. But I know what it’s like to rejoin the real world after a vacation like the one we just had, to cry all the way home on an airplane, to wake up surrounded by responsibility instead of ocean.  I didn’t have to suffer the shock of re-entry because I live in Mexico, and when the band took a break to allow the stage to be set for one of the endless beauty contests or  raffles for pick-up trucks that go on night and day during fiesta time, the DJ took over.  With his help, on my first night home, I was lulled to sleep by the catchy rhymes— “Mama, she say roly poly, Papa, he say holy moley,”— of  this song,  number one on the pirate ship hit parade.

If you are actually checking here to see if I have updated, Thank you! Some of you have checked in to see when I’ll be back in action, and the answer is Monday, June 14th. See you then.

Honest to God, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting in years, and I know it. Every time I log onto facebook my sister has put up a cheery status announcing that her blog is up to date, tra la, not like her slovenly sister South of the Border. She doesn’t actually say that, but I know it! I know that’s what she’s thinking! Hmph.

My biggest fear?  That the magic of Mexico has finally overcome my yankee sense of purpose, and  I’m just going to go through the rest of my life as a contented flounder, never achieving any of my goals, never hitting the ground running with my eye on the tiger, no. Just lying around eating fresh fruit or arguing with friends about the merits of various pool floats, and wondering where that mariachi music is coming from.

I know that I have many faithful readers, and I thank you, and apologize for my lethargy this month. But it’s MAY and it’s HOT and I’m going to PUERTO VALLARTA, and there you have it. Thank your for reading. Please come back.   I promise I will.

As soon as I get back from the beach. XO!

Really? Does that look good?

One of the things I’ve gotten used to hearing down here, among other surprising complaints, — I had a client in town over Good Friday who felt cheated because he didn’t see Jesus. Frankly, not being able to find a Jesus in Mexico over the Easter holidays is like saying you cant find a Santa look-alike in Manhattan at Christmas. I maintain that he slept through his visit–  is newcomers whining about how there’s no Mexican food here. Really? I haven’t suffered any scary weight loss, I can tell you that, and I’m in Mexico. Unless  I’m headed for my own show on the Discovery Health Network, there must be Mexican food involved. But no, these visitors insist it can’t be found here, and of course,  since  what they’re looking for is a plate of Doritos covered with Velveeta cheese and Ro-tel tomatoes, they are correct. I can no longer imagine shredded cheddar cheese on a taco, by the way, and I can imagine shredded cheese on pretty much anything.

Tacos are the exception rather than the rule on restaurant menus here, if that’s what you’re looking forward to.  If you want a taco, the process requires that you first establish which taco vendor has the “best” tacos. These loyalties take on a feverish commitment similar to that of football fans, and once they are established, it’s till death do you part. The vendors sell from carts that are closed up tight during the day. At night they are opened up, rickety tables covered with brightly printed vinyl are set in the street and the taco wars begin. At our plaza here in San Antonio, there are three vendors selling tacos every night,  one on each side of the little square. The patrons at each respective cart would meet you at dawn with pistols before they would change allegiance, in spite of the fact that the carts are close enough for the diners to hold conversations, and there’s no visible difference in the available selection of fillings  at the three.  Each stand  offers several kinds of meat—beef, pork, and cut up hot dogs, at least,  along with toppings. Those will include chopped  radishes, cabbage, onions,  cilantro,  carrots, lots of different  kinds of peppers  and a variety of sauces that are a risky business if you don’t know the levels of picante that you’re dealing with.

If you read the post I wrote about tamales, you’ll remember that I found myself in a complicated nightmare, trying to create sauces from recipes that had sixty ingredients. Not only does Mexico have food, it has cuisine, arguably the most sophisticated on the continent. If you don’t believe me, and I admit that I am less of an authority on this subject than, for instance, who’s getting kicked off of Dancing with the Stars, head over to Mexico Cooks! and get your eyes opened.  That chick knows something about Mexican Food, as you’ll see.  The author of this insanely professional blog, Cristina Potters,  is a Chicago native who arrived in Mexico in 1981.  After several years as a social worker in the Tijuana city jail, of all things,  she lived in Mexico City, then in a tiny village in Michoacán, and resided for many years in Jalisco, including Guadalajara.  The italics are mine, of course, to reflect my customary astonishment at people like Cristina, who come here and give back to the communities they inhabit. Although doing social work at a jail in Tijuana, let’s face it, is in a class all by itself. Now a permanent fixture in Morelia, Michoacán, Cristina holds dual Mexican and United States citizenship.

Cristina learned the cuisines of the central highlands of Mexico from the source: the mayoras (extraordinary older Michoacán home cooks) who have been her friends for nearly 30 years.  She has mastered the intricacies of traditional Mexican recipes, flavors, and of course, the delights of the pre-Hispanic corn and chile kitchen.

Mexico Cooks! is the preeminent culinary and cultural website about all things Mexico and was named the number one food blog in the world by the London Times.  Praised and quoted in newspapers as diverse as the New York Times, Guadalajara’s El Informador, the South China Morning Post, and the Chicago Tribune, Mexico Cooks! is always mentioned as the Internet’s most authoritative voice about central Mexico.  Cited as the go-to expert on Mexico in the most recent edition of Lonely Planet Mexico and quoted in the latest Time Out Mexico City, Cristina and Mexico Cooks! currently count more than a third of a million readers as their fans. To which I say, “Well, sure, if you’re looking for a food blog, you know, with pictures and everything, fine. ” I hope Christina has a  recipe in it for sour grapes.

Anyway, if you’re down here looking for the Number 3 combination plate with enchiladas, burritos, tacos, taquitos, guacamole, beans, cheese and sour cream on it, it’s going to take you several stops at a variety of joints to assemble such a thing. You won’t find it on the menu at a good restaurant, any more than you’d find a Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity  at Mortons’ Steakhouse. You will find Arrechera, skirt steak done in a way that is fantastic. You’ll find shrimp or fish Zarandeado, and grilled chicken that will make you go back and throw rocks at the rotisserie chicken sold in supermarkets in the States. You just have to know what you’re looking for.  So go check out Mexico Cooks!

Bloggers note: If you’re planning a visit to Lake Chapala and would  like a list of restaurants down here, send me an email and I’ll send one to you.

I’ve only heard this story once, but around here one telling from a completely unverified source qualifies as history. In this case the teller was Sergio Alvarez, celebrity guide, chaufer, moving man and all around useful guy to know. He also happens to be Mexican, which gives the yarn some added veritas. I can’t tell you the fountains of bullshit that winter visitors have spouted at me, quoting with pride “a Local” they met the night before at El BarCo, as though qualifying for status as a local around here required some kind of pedigree beyond an old plane ticket, for Pete’s sake. Don’t get me started on the internet, which gives unfounded rumor an entirely new level of authority, as I know better than anyone. I’m kind of casual about research, frankly, so if it shows up in Wikipedia or Ask Jeeves, well, that’s better than me just making it up during a nap, right?

Based on all that, an anecdote from Sergio is practically the same as reading it in one of the lost codices. He says that the first settlers in Lake Chapala were the Nahuatl who were looking for the place that their Gods had picked out for them on which to build a fabulous city. It’s not surprising that the this rough bunch of nomads, who eventually became the Great Mexica, had a hard time finding the place they were looking for. For one thing, they were searching for a fairly specific and unlikely image that had been prophesied for them, that of an eagle eating a snake, on top of a cactus, yet. That is not a vision that they were likely to stumble over very often, no matter how much peyote they swallowed.

In addition to the difficulties presented in locating the snake eating eagle, the Mexica made unpopular house guests, being a hideously arrogant and unpleasant people with tendencies toward cannibalism and necrophilia. When the well mannered local folk who had first dibs on the land saw them coming, they zipped up the tent flaps pretty quickly. Their bad manners and rude ways caused their welcome to wear very thin with any of the tribes that inhabited the choice spots they came across while searching for the vision. The Azteca had not yet developed the habit of sacrificing anyone who looked at them sideways, so they just moved on when asked.
Their journey started somewhere around Arizona and ended, as you know, 176 years later in the spot that is now Mexico City. What you may not know is that there’s a school of thought that holds that the reason they eventually chose the middle of a lake surrounded by swampy marshes to build Mexico City was not because they finally saw the dumb vision, but because they had been kicked out of every other place between Nevada and Ecuador, and that one spot was the only place in all of the known world that nobody else wanted. What could you do with it? Build a floating garden, hahaha? An Aztec warrior of the time, burned out on looking for the prophecy, might have been heard to say “I got no place else to go!” Like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman.

According to Sergio, about half of the tribe had already given up on the mission fifty years earlier on the Nayarit to Tenochitlan leg, which took them along the South Side of our own Lake Chapala,( where San Luis Soyatlan is today.) Once there, a group of warriors looked around and saw that the Lake was beautiful, the climate perfect, that bougainvillea and corn grew if you so much as held the thought in your mind. As if by magic, this particular group of warriors suddenly started insisting that they saw the eagle on top of the cactus eating a snake etched into the shadows on the side of our mountains here. “Where?” asked the medicine men and religious folk “We don’t see anything!” “What’re you, blind?” cried the warriors “There, that big shadow! Boy, if that’s not an eagle eating a snake on top of a cactus, I don’t know what is!” They stuck to their guns, and that’s how the shores of Lake Chapala got settled.

Sergio says so.