Pests

Each time I return to San Pancho from Connecticut, I feel a wave of affection toward the town as I drive down Avenida Tercer Mundo to our home. I still marvel, even after eight winters, at how lucky we were to find this little piece of heaven on earth, this tropical paradise. Our pink house looks prettier than I remembered, the landscaping more lush.

Then, after a couple of hours of re-entry euphoria, I begin to notice the pests. Microscopic ants scurry along the kitchen counter; a roach runs through the utensil drawer. And damn! That gecko who lives in the bedroom rafters has pooped on the clean bedspread again.

Reality has dawned. I must do something about the ants and the roaches and the gecko poop. The hotel will not send someone up to dispatch the pests, because I am not in a hotel. This is my home.

The distinction between vacationing in the tropics and actually living here has never quite sunk into my consciousness. Parrots that swoop across the patio, copa de oro that spills over my garden wall, picture-perfect sunsets -- all continue to delight me. It’s easy to feel that I’m on a long vacation.

But I can’t ignore the flip side of this tropical paradise. Living in San Pancho also means battling termites, ticks, scorpions, snakes, mosquitos, ants of several types, mold, mildew, fungus on my plants, and iguanas that dislodge the roof tiles. The jungle and its creatures want to claim my house, and I’m not going to let them. I will research them on the Internet, I will spray, I will fumigate, I will swat. I will not flag or fail in my campaign to conquer the pests.

Lola and the Pet Psychic

Lola, my ten-year old golden Lab, has a sweet temperament, freckles on her nose and something akin to eyebrows that she uses to look gleeful or glum, all of which endear her to everyone. Friends and family even seem to feel the need to look out for her welfare. “You’re not leaving Lola behind again when you’re gone for the summer, are you?” they asked in May, as if I left her alone and tied to a stake, instead of with my son Michael in his Vallarta apartment.

But I did wonder if Lola cared. Just to be on the safe side, I decided to check in with the pet psychic visiting from California and staying with friends. “Barbara is amazing,” they had raved. “She can commune with dogs and cats and tell you what’s on their minds.” Money well spent, I thought, and invited her over.

A thirty-something dressed in jeans and sneakers, Barbara impressed me on meeting as warm and self-effacing. “I know a lot of people giggle at my gift,” she admitted, then shrugged, called to Lola, and sat down to get to work. For ten quiet minutes, they stared at each other, Lola lying at the feet of the pet psychic, the surf humming in the background. Good Lord, I thought as I watched them, who knew my dog had so much to say?

“Well,” said Barbara, turning to face me, “it’s mostly great news from Lola. She says she’s happy. She even adds, and I quote, ‘Nobody doesn’t like me.’ She says she’s fine with staying at Michael’s. But not with anyone else. Only ‘ special people’ are acceptable substitutes for you, but she wouldn’t say who qualifies. And she hopes you won’t be away as long as last year.” I felt relieved.

That was the good news. Now came the complaints. “Lola says she doesn’t like to eat alone,” said Barbara. “So please move her bowl out of the pantry and next to you at mealtime.” Fair enough, I thought.

“She also says she misses music. That since your husband died, you haven’t played music or turned on the porch speakers. She’d like to see some photos of the three of you together, too, down low where she can look at them. ” Whoa, I thought, Barbara probably had heard about Marsh’s death, but still. And how demandingly sweet of my good old girl.

There was more. More walks, please. More rides in the car. More belly rubs. No surprises there. But I’ve covered the highlights. So am I a believer, after hearing what I wanted to hear? No, but I’m not a scoffer, either. I received the reassurance I was after, an anecdote that never fails to amuse, plus the return of music to my porch. As for Lola, she now has breakfast in the kitchen, with her bowl close to me while I make morning coffee. And there’s a photo in the study that I took out of an album and framed. It’s of Marsh, Lola, and me in our cactus garden, and it makes me smile. Money well spent, I still say.

Bougainvillea Battles

The wild tangle of color sold me on the San Pancho property before the real estate agent had parked the car. Masses of magenta, fuchsia, tangerine sprawled across the stucco entry walls, spilled over them, arched back in sweet coquette. Bougainvillea, paper-thin bracts of saturated color, teased me inside the gate to first view the gardens and three-room structure that would become my winter home.

Bougainvillea thrives half a world away from vegetation endemic to where I live in the States: fir, cedar, and rhododendron landscape the Pacific Northwest. Bougainvillea represents another, more exciting world for me. The tropics. Sloe-eyed, exotic. Crayola-colored sunshine stretching beyond summer to hug the winter months. I was mad for the exuberant shrub.

My first season here I nurtured my bougainvillea: daily inspected for plagas (garden pests), coaxed an errant branch, fertilized and watered when I deemed fit. They responded with affection: the plants thickened to a bower that necessitated ducking; bougainvillea inside the gates climbed walls, twined up posts, nested atop the dried palmera-frond palapas.

My husband, tall, reduced to stooping beneath the bower to reach the house, suggested we trim the bougainvillea back.

"The thorns are cutting me to ribbons," he said. "They attack me every time I come through the gate."

"No!"

"They are overgrown and probably doing damage to the other plants, not to mention the roof of the palapa. And…," his coup de grace, "they are very messy. We must constantly sweep the sidewalk."

I acquiesced to reducing the depth of the bower but stood my ground on bougainvillea inside the garden walls.

Such was our compromise come April and time to pack up and head north for the summer. With trepidation I talked to Anselmo, the man we hired to care for our garden.

"Take extra care with my bougainvillea," I said. "Watch for critters, fertilize with triple 17, don’t water too much…"

"I hate bougainvillea," he said, his English to the point. "Thorns worse than scorpion sting."

"Be more careful then. This is my favorite plant."

"I take care of everything," he said, with a wide sweep of his arm. "When you come back you won’t recognize this place."

Anselmo was true to his word. During the summer he ripped out every offending plant. We returned in the fall to find a stark entry and landscape inside the gate devoid of color. My riotous bougainvillea laid to rest.

When confronted with the misdemeanor, Anselmo beamed.
"I took care of it for you," he said. "No more ugly thorns. No more to sweep." His smile pulsed with pride of accomplishment.

I have tried to replicate the first whirl of color that beckoned me to buy this house four years ago. Starts of bougainvillea poke out of pots and peer up the walls. Summer gardeners post-Anselmo tend them at my request. But each fall I return to a heap of dung-colored bracts on the ground and thorny stems devoid of life. This year I may give up and plant rhododendrons.

Voting Via Democrats Abroad

Last February my husband and I drove from San Pancho to the nearby town of Cruz de Huanacaxtle, located the polling place in the back of Philo´s Restaurant, and, with considerable delight, cast our vote in the first Global Democratic Primary. Thanks to the organization Democrats Abroad, we were choosing nine delegates to go to the convention, and we were able to vote at an actual site in the newly created Costa Banderas district. Yes, we could have voted online, but this was much more fun.

No polling place in Mexico would be available for the general election, however. Frequent emails from Democrats Abroad gave us instructions for casting a ballot outside the U.S. but we were dubious that it would actually be counted. We had tried in 2004 to cast an absentee ballot in New Mexico and, to make a long story short, had failed. Still, the Democrats Abroad process seemed our best option.

Though we have closed out our lives in the U.S. and have become residents of Mexico, we haven´t stopped caring intensely about what happens in el otro lado—the other side. In the last years we have wished we could stop caring, but that American mix of hope, disappointment, responsibility, that beautiful dream—it won´t let us go. We wanted to vote.

We followed our Democrats Abroad instructions, sent in our registration particulars for our old home state of New Mexico, and received official write-in ballots to print out. We filled them out in solemn ceremony at the kitchen counter and faxed them in. But two weeks before the election we each began getting emails from the Registrar of Voters in New Mexico asking if we wanted an absentee ballot faxed to us. She emailed again and again. Had we voted or had we not? Finally, Jonathan called her.

“Oh, Mr. Kingson! Yes, we have your write-in ballots right here. Certainly, we’ll count them! No problem.”

Wow! Way better than a touch screen. But it turns out we shouldn’t have worried. We learned today that in our entire county there were only five Republican votes.

Flan Is To Queen Latifa As Jericalla Is To Gwyneth Paltrow

Yes, yes, you can get a great flan in San Pancho, and none better than Eme´s, as Ellen told us in her story last August. But flan, though delicious, mind you, is a little heavy. You can stand a spoon up in it. You can experience a certain “I can´t believe I ate the whole thing” moment when your plate is empty.

Consider the jericalla—a postre light as a butterfly, as delicate as a gardenia petal. An egg custard—milk, sugar, yolks—flavored with canela (cinnamon) and vanilla. The local cinnamon sticks are softer and more perfumed than the ones we use north of the border, though all are imported from the Spice Islands. However, the orchid which produces vanilla beans grows in Veracruz. The Aztecs introduced it to the Spanish and the Spanish to the world. I first heard that jericalla came from Guadalajara, but a dinner guest insisted it was from his home state of Michoacán. My housekeeper says it’s from the state of México. You could suspect it comes from France, since it is made just like a crème caramel or crème brûlée without the caramelized or “burnt” top, but those famous desserts couldn’t have contained vanilla until after the Conquest.

Recipe for Jericalla

Simmer 5 ½ cups of milk with a large stick of canela and a vanilla bean or ½ teaspoon of vanilla extract for 20 minutes. Add ½ cup of sugar and simmer 20 minutes more. Cool. Beat in 5 or 6 yolks, divide among 8 custard cups placed in a baño maria (or, as we say in English—well, we don’t say in English. We use the French bain marie.) Cook at 350° until set, about 30 to 50 minutes depending on the altitude. You could top it with a little grated canela but hold the fruits, slivered almonds, coconut or mint sprigs which often show up on the crème brûlées. It’s too perfect as is.

"If You've Got It, Flaunt It!"

“So what was she wearing today?” I ask my husband Skip.

“She had on her blue Immigration Service blouse -- the top three buttons were undone -- skin-tight Capri pants, and high heels. She looked great.”

I knew Skip would notice her outfit when he went to see if his visa was ready. I had seen her myself. She’s a cute young woman who processes visa applications at the local immigration office, and she manages to make a dowdy uniform look sexy.

As an over-60 New Englander whose raciest clothing is from L.L. Bean, I am sometimes startled by the way Mexican women dress. In a bank or law firm I’m used to seeing conservative business attire, but here the women look like they’re ready for a hot date. At our Mexican lawyer’s office I was fascinated by the outfits on the female office assistants: see-through green blouses with lacy black bras underneath. We’re not in WASP-y Connecticut anymore!

The women in San Pancho often wear clothes that expose a lot of skin. Yes, it’s hot on Mexico’s Pacific coast, but all that cleavage isn’t about keeping cool. I think the style of dress reflects an attitude about femininity: I like what I’ve got and I’m not afraid to show it off. Flirtation is fun.
I recall watching one of my Spanish teachers dance at a San Pancho music fiesta. While swaying and turning to a flamenco rhythm, she was breastfeeding her infant son. Nothing immodest about it. “How does she manage all that?” I wondered. “She takes womanliness to a new level!”

Maybe the comfort women here have with femininity is a counterpart to the traditional machismo of the culture. I haven’t figured it out, but I kind of envy their confident, uninhibited style.

Skip will go back to the immigration office again this week. Five trips so far, and still no visa. But I haven’t heard a word of complaint.

Obama Salad

The unpacking could wait. It was our first day back in San Pancho and Irma, our housekeeper, wanted to talk politics. Dispensing with chit-chat, she asked, “Who do you think will be the next President of the United States?”

“Obama, I hope.”

“What about your family and friends?” she asked, “Are they going to vote for him?”

“They are,” I said. “There’s a lot of support for him in our community.”

But then I laughed, thinking about my ninety-five year old mother who refused to disclose her decision right up to the day I left.

“I’m undecided, “she said slyly. "

Undecided? My mother was the only undecided voter I knew. But how could she, a lifelong Democrat, desert us now? I tell Irma about my mother but also about my friend at the library who spent every weekend in Iowa with the Obama campaign, going door to door to register voters.

“It’s complicated and certainly not a sure thing,” I added. “What do you think, Irma?”

“I would vote for him.” she said, firmly. “I really want him to win. He’s the best person and he’ll be good for Mexico and the United States.”

Election fever was alive and well on the Mexico side of the border. When we visited friends, election news dominated every conversation. And with only days to go, we unapologetically stayed tuned to CNN. We hung on the polls, the blather of the commentators, the red and blue projections. My email overflowed with links to serious op-ed pieces and YouTube. Worried emails, panicked emails, hopeful emails crowded my inbox; passions spilled across the screen.

Not all our fellow Obama supporters had TV and we couldn’t face election night alone. We called, we invited, we offered a ham and potato salad dinner, and, as people said “yes,” the group grew from five to ten to fifteen. It seemed there was a mutual need to spend this evening together.

And so we gathered, collecting in small groups. Platters of food heaped the table; Nancy’s “Obama salad,” as she called it, Jim’s salsa, Faby’s apple torte. Some of us stayed glued to the television as if seeing would be believing. Others ate for comfort the table, just within sight and earshot. Out of view, some others, too nervous, found the patio their place of choice. Bad news would not dare to reach them there.

It was early, too early; many states had not yet reported, we were cautioned. Wolf Blitzer didn’t dare call it yet, but we knew. We could do the math. Scenes from Grant Park in Chicago, our home town, made us cheer. Illuminating the night sky, the mammoth screen said it all, Barack Obama, President-elect.

Faces from around the globe gave us even greater joy – people in the United States, Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Middle East – all of us witnessing a historic moment, all of us celebrating. That night we were as perfect as Nancy’s Obama salad...a bright colorful mix, a medley of flavors, together in San Pancho.

On the Road to San Pancho

The woman’s voice from the dashboard announces, “In three point five kilometers, turn right onto I 80 toward Qptlantapque.”

“What did she say? What is she talking about?” I ask. I’m driving, peering at the array of green signs ahead which look vaguely familiar. Not one comes close to matching any destination our audible guide has pronounced with such an unusual number of consonants.

Bill consults the Mexico map book spread across his lap. “Ignore her,” he says and takes the GPS from its special perch to enter new information.

“That’s not the route we want,” he says with authority. “It will take us out of our way. Keep going straight.”

I keep going straight, but I’m not sure how the GPS feels about being snubbed.

“Recalculating, “she says. Do I detect a little sarcasm? A new route has been established. She would be wise to agree with Bill, the navigator.

I’ll explain. We’re driving back to San Pancho from Chicago, being guided in part by the voice of our new GPS, Global Positioning System. Regardless of the number of times we’ve made this trip, we seem to find new and complicated ways to get lost each time. The GPS is our last, great hope. With our destination firmly set, from point A, Evanston, Illinois, to point B, San Francisco, Nayarit, we have only to set the cruise control and be guided across two countries.

Bill is in geographic love. I don’t trust her. We don’t share unconditional faith in all things electronic.

We manage to get through the U.S. and across the border with a minimum of contradictory information. It’s only when we’re in Mexico that doubts begin to surface. Bill checks the road map against the screen and continually points out the highways, tollways and towns that are missing from view. Where are the motels, restaurants and scenic points of interest? This does little to inspire confidence.

Our four day trip has little diversion; we drive ten to twelve hours a day listening to radio programs in Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas and Texas, more Texas, still Texas, digging out books on CD when our minds are numb from local color.

This year Bill is entertained by his new traveling companion. Second-guessing her keeps him busy whenever he isn’t at the wheel. I, on the other hand, find her less entertaining. Miss GPS needs too much attention. She’s like a petulant girlfriend whom Bill admonishes, while she stubbornly disputes his every word. And besides, she clearly has no soul and cares nothing for our wellbeing on the road.

As opposed to Mexican road signs, I am by struck by how often they worry about us.

The signs caution. “No maneje fatigado,” don’t drive when you’re fatigued or “no maneje cansado,” don’t drive when you’re tired. I like this caring attitude.

“Si toma, no maneje,” If you drink don’t drive. Obvious, maybe. But this message must need repeating and so it is, many times. “Cuando tomas, no maneje, “When you drink, don’t drive. This sounds like a more realistic approach.

We’re reminded to slow down, watch our speed, respect the speed limit, obey the signs, respect the signs, and keep the highway clean. All good suggestions, and we appreciate the reminders.

Most of all, we’re reminded, “Maneje con precaucion, su familia lo espera,” Drive carefully, your family waits for you.

No GPS will tell you that.

"Alberca Hoy? Swimming Pool Today?"

Refreshed after a mid-day swim, Skip and I were enjoying lunch on our pool deck. Abram, our six-year-old neighbor, was peering at us through the Cyclone fence between his backyard and ours. His little face squeezed between the links, he asked in Spanish, “Please, can I go swimming?” Who could resist? “Yes, Abram,” we told him, “you can swim, but only if you bring your mom with you.” Five minutes later he was back with his mom Teresa and four buddies.

Word got around fast that Abram and his friends had been swimming, and kids began stopping us in the street. “Alberca hoy? Swimming pool today?” they’d ask. Skip and I conferred. “It’s hot. We’ve got this nice pool. We miss being around kids. Why not? As long as they bring an adult to watch them.” So we said “yes.” Kids began to show up at all times of the day, but no adults were with them. Now what? Someone had to supervise, so we designated one hour, two afternoons a week, as kid time in the pool. Skip and I would supervise.

On swim days we hang a sign in Spanish on the front gate, “Children: Swimming Today, 4:30.” Kids with plastic water toys, towels, and goggles begin to gather outside the gate in mid-afternoon. At 4:30 on the dot, we open the gate, and Skip and I take our places in plastic chairs on the pool deck.

An explosion of energy ensues. Splashing, cannonballing, racing, teasing, diving, shouting – kids doing what they do everywhere in pools. As we watch them, personalities begin to emerge. Juan practices his cannonball for a solid hour. Kelly and Carla tend to the younger kids. Alonzo picks fights. Pablo is a natural leader. Erika always complains when someone takes her water toys.

Lifeguard duty appeals to Skip. He wears a whistle on a lanyard, and he doesn’t hesitate to enforce the rules: no running, no food or gum, no fighting, no peeing in the pool. At 5:25, he blasts the whistle and shouts, “Cinco minutos más!” (“Five minutes more!”). At 5:30 the kids collect flip-flops, towels, and toys and file out, saying “Gracias” as they go.

A lot of the Americans in San Pancho live on the outskirts of town, where it’s quieter and more private, but we like being in the middle of the action. Chances to be involved with Mexicans, like the pool kids, pop up, and that helps us feel we’re part of the community. We’re not just on a long vacation here. San Pancho is our second hometown.

It Was Just Like That

My husband’s mother was named Romance and her mother was named BonBon. They were easily colorful enough to deserve these names, beautiful and brilliant, alcoholic. It was inherited color—BonBon´s father was one of the Ringling Brothers, the circus entrepreneurs, but by some dark twist the only one not posed in the photos, the only one not rich and successful. BonBon never got over it.

I knew my mother-in-law well. I met her before her decline and I helped to care for her after the drinking and a benign tumor which compressed her brain had taken almost all her senses and faculties.

I knew BonBon, too. True, she was dead by the time I met her grandson, but her daughter Rome, as she was always called, made her live for me. Each Christmas for fifteen years or so Rome had written a story about her family’s adventures with BonBon, the queen of the house, all prerogative and no responsibility, or about tiny Baraboo, Wisconsin, where Ringling sisters-in-law lived in mutual distrust while the brothers took the circus on the road. Rome gave these stories as gifts to her children, her sisters and their children. When I joined the family these gifts were waiting for me.

What a fine writer Rome was. She made her living at it—screenplays, books—but these stories, ten or twelve pages each, were especially brilliant gems. She did have great material. BonBon was a colossal eccentric, as charming and difficult a human being as ever lived. And, of course, the circus. You can’t make this stuff up, as they say, and Rome embellished it with love and humor, originality and punch.

Years later, when we had put Rome in a nursing home, Jonathan and I visited her, explained who we were again and again, brought her ice cream and fed it to her, and searched for topics of conversation suitable for her tiny bit of consciousness. Then I hit upon the idea of reading her stories to her. One a visit and then start over. She was transformed. She came alive, laughing, shaking her head in wonderment, her eyes suddenly alert.

“How did they know?” she´d say every time. “It was just like that.”

What do you think, friends, San Pancho Writers? Shall we tuck away our Mexico stories in a folder labeled: Open in Case of Dementia? For a day when we no longer know we wrote them but perhaps can still marvel:

“Yes! It was just like that.”

Dia de los Muertos and Halloween: A Peaceful Co-existence

My granddaughter, Anna, 7, has announced her big decision --- she will be a ladybug for Halloween. Her sister, Lily, 9, can’t make up her mind as yet but does have it narrowed down to a polar bear or a pirate. Their mother the costume-maker says, “I’m pulling for the pirate.”

Mexican kids in San Pancho might not invest as much in what they’re going to be, but they sure have caught on to trick or treating. With or without costumes, they run from shop to shop in search of free candy, shouting, “Ah-lo-een!” and holding open plastic grocery bags or simply their own cupped hands. American adults in town try to crank up the fun. They decorate their houses, hand out fistfuls of miniature chocolate bars, and ooh and ah over the little princesses and cowboys who come to their door.

Some lament this intrusion of Americana. They fear it might overtake Mexicans’ traditional Day of the Dead. An unjustified fear, I think, if you go by the spreading popularity of the day’s traditional altars and artesania on both sides of the border now. Last year, my family alone, with no Mexican members, went to Dia de los Muertos gatherings and brought along photos of dead loved ones for altars in New York, Pittsburgh, Austin, and San Jose. My Mexican friend, Mini, born and raised in Cuernavaca, told me, “We city people used to see Dia de los Muertos rituals as superstitions practiced by ‘la gente indigena’ out in the pueblos. But now that it’s cool, we’re into it, too.”

Last year I also built an altar and, according to custom, filled it with bouquets of marigolds, photos of my deceased husband Marsh, candles, his beloved celestial navigation tools. Late in the evening on November 1st, I lit the candles and placed some of his favorite foods on the altar, the fragrances and light meant to guide his spirit home. I played some of the CDs he liked best and read aloud from a piece I had written about us. I felt sheepish, though, and kept it all a secret from my family and friends. No one could have been more surprised than I, however, by the joy it gave me to commemorate Marsh in this way. So this year my daughter and granddaughters will join me, and our altar will be bigger, better, and more inclusive.

The stuffed mussels, oatmeal raisin cookies, and old brass sextant will still be there, but we’ll also remember my parents and grandparents by adding their photos and mementos. We’ll nibble on Wisconsin cheddar cheese which always numbered among my mother’s Christmas gifts from home, and popcorn made from scratch, the way my father made it most Sunday nights. We’ll add more background music---Irish “diddly-ay” and German polkas would suit--- as the four of us share stories about these people we loved.

Listen to the Music; Learn Spanish

Beto Gonzalez and Carlos Gonzalez

Beto, Sandra’s husband, and Carlos, their 20-something son, were playing their guitars and singing as husband Skip and I savored a Sandra’s Restaurant specialty, spicy shrimp with rice and plantains. “Pregúntale,” Beto crooned during each chorus of one melancholy song. With the tune and the phrase still replaying in my head the next day, I consulted my copy of “501 Spanish Verbs.” “Pregúntale” means “ask him.”

“Ask him what?” I wondered. So next time we ate at Sandra’s I requested the song, and tried to grasp a few more Spanish words. “…porque me ha robado todo.” Another look at the “501”: “Ask him why he has robbed me of everything.”

Gratified by my interest in their music, Beto and Carlos picked up their guitars and plugged in the microphone each time Skip and I ate at Sandra’s. Sometimes we were the only patrons, so there was time to chat about the songs. They knew a little English, I knew a little Spanish, we all liked the music -- it worked. They had learned many songs from CD’s, so if I really liked a song, I bought the CD and tried to translate the lyrics into English.

As someone who thinks it’s fun to read a Spanish-English dictionary, this process seemed like a game to me. Translating is easier, I discovered, if I can see the lyrics in writing, so now I buy CD’s accompanied by the little booklets with lyrics. Romance, lost love, nostalgia for a favorite horse or the old hometown -- I learn a lot of new words and enjoy Mexican music for its own sake.

Our five-day car trips between San Pancho and Connecticut have provided long stretches of time for song translation. Since I am always the passenger (Skip insists on doing the driving), I am free to browse through my “501” and my Spanish-English dictionary, always handy in the side pocket of the car door. On one trip I translated “Ojalá Que Te Vaya Bonito” (“I Hope It Goes Well For You”), a ranchera tune popularized by the legendary Vicente Fernández. “An excellent selection for practicing the subjunctive,” my Spanish-speaking, musical son, Ian, tells me.

Vicente Fernández is probably the favorite ranchera singer of most Mexicans, and he’s my favorite too. If there’s a Mexican equivalent of Hank Williams and Frank Sinatra, rolled into one, he’s the man. So when he performed at Madison Square Garden in New York City, I had to go. Singing along with several thousand Mexicans, basking in Mexican culture, I had an unforgettable evening. When I got back to San Pancho, I couldn’t wait to tell Beto and Carlos all about it.

It's Only Paint

I was already pretty brave when it came to color. “It’s only paint,” I would always say. But moving to Mexico has made me fearless. Because here, under our relentless tropical sun, anything goes. Susan painted the exterior of her house morning glory purple. Silvino painted his cerulean blue. A neighbor on the beach picked persimmon red.

So I felt free to paint a kitchen in banana-leaf green and a dining room in cobalt blue. Windows and doors I trimmed in fuchsia, as vivid as the bougainvillea that line the driveway and coat it with falling blossoms during afternoon sea breezes.

I call it banana-leaf green because that was the model used by the guy at the Comex paint store. It was friend Carolyn’s idea. “Cut a leaf and pick a shade within it for him to mix.”

Talavera tiles, in patterns centuries old, also model colors I like to imitate---terra cotta orange, egg yolk yellow, turquoise blue. My daughter Nen, a fine arts major-cum-home renovator in northern California, laughs about her clients who ask for a vibrant “Tuscan” or “Mediterranean” look. “That’s code for Mexican,” she says.

I Brake For Folk Art

I am addicted to collecting folk art. I try to fight it. Whenever a new home or room comes within my purview, I do try to preserve some zen-like simplicity. Then I think, "Just one special piece, one spot of color and all the rest taupe or oatmeal or white." But soon it’s, "If one ceramic devil in a car looks good, perhaps six devils in vans, helicopters, and buses would be even better." Mexico doesn’t do zen and neither do I.

Ah, the siren call of the great art towns and villages—Tonala, Tzintzuntzan, Ocumicho, Teotihuacan del Valle, Capula… I get the itch at least once a year to make the rounds of my favorites and look for new villages where, one has heard, trees of life, embroidered blouses, ceramic pineapples or corn husk flowers can be found. My folk art collection is packed on every flat surface, and clusters on the verticals as well. Nor can I resist duplicating the wild colors on walls, columns, cushions and painted furniture.
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Now I have a new house to decorate. San Pancho, on the coast, is hot in the summer, but very close by, the mountains beckon. My husband and I are finishing a house in mile-high San Sebastian where summers sometimes involve a fire in the fireplace. The house has a colonial look and the riotous color of the coast won’t do. The living room is plastered with adobe—a Ralph Laurenesque grey-brown. It has dark wood bookshelves and shutters and the ceiling has wooden beams. This time would be different, I told myself. Folk art, of course, but subdued. A darkish painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe with a bemused smile and a copper shrine with heavy patina filled with dried brown roses. I ordered sofas in “moleskin.” The sample looked almost identical to the walls. They would be ready in six weeks and I went looking for my accent pieces. Just a touch of red.

I found an old wedding chest from Guerrero painted a dull cherry, and embroidered pillows for the sofas in reds, oranges and greens. I considered a rug with lots of red from Oaxaca, from the weaving village that sent rugs as tribute to the Aztec emperors, but I held off. This time I wasn’t getting carried away, remember?

Six weeks passed and passed again, and the sofas were not ready. Guests came and went, and there were no sofas to sit on. Finally the call came just before we were to leave on a trip. Two quick runs from Puerto Vallarta to San Sebastian were needed to transport the furniture on top of our car. Fortunately the pieces were well wrapped and protected and we left them that way to keep them clean.

When we returned three weeks later, I tore the first hole in the wrapping. The fabric was bright cranberry red. Oh, I knew it. Consider that the sales slip had said: Modela Sala Rojo—Color Moleskin. Yes, we’d worried but had been breezily assured several times that Rojo(Red) was just the model name. I called the store to complain.
.
“Moleskin? Isn’t that a reddish color?” the sales girl said.

I contemplated how much longer I’d have to live without sofas to get the color right. Eventually, I unwrapped them and brought out the pillows. The combination was intense. It was Mexican. Might as well go with that Oaxacan rug. Maybe a devil in a red truck, too.

I live in a restaurant

I live in a restaurant. Although my husband and I purchased a popular San Pancho eatery in 2005 to remodel for our winter getaway, its previous life lingers. New paint, fresh plaster, has not obliterated the first life of our Mexican home. The walls still hum with the memory of the meals. Sandra’s Restaurant was seasoned to perfection.

The telephone-pole advertising is tattered or missing now. The tables dressed in colorful linens are gone. The iconic photographs of Frida Kahlo that decorated the outdoor dining room grace bedroom walls instead. The wine and Margarita glasses that shimmered over the bar now stack behind cupboard doors. The dozens of votive candles burned to nubbins. The restaurant’s palapa-covered dining rooms, rich with tropical ambience, breathe new life as a potting shed, a studio, and a living room al fresco.

It took us a year to sort out our lot. When she sold her restaurant, Sandra left behind cartons of culinary accoutrements. Some of the pots and pans and dishes we kept, most we gave away. And Sandra left behind a behemoth of a stove. An oversize forged iron gas contraption on coaster wheels we call Black Beauty. She’s a cumbersome thing, not easily arranged within the kitchen work area. So we designed the space to suit her needs rather than ours. Black Beauty dominates the interior of the small three-room house.

Sandra sold the restaurant, she tells us, because customer demand grew stressful. Although it was a family affair with Beto, Carlos, Gaby and others tending bar, making music, taking orders, it was Sandra in the kitchen night after night, broiling and baking, stewing and stirring and arranging upon terra cotta plates her signature dishes.

She needed a break. But it wasn’t a long one. Cooking her passion, in short order she opened a catering business. Next door to us, next door to the former restaurant that established her reputation. We know her business thrives because most afternoons we whiff the sweet smell of her success wafting beyond her open kitchen walls: garlic sautéed in butter, cumin toasted golden, rosemary crisped in olive oil. She talks of opening another restaurant. Perhaps next season. A scaled-down version of the one we call home.

I have come to realize life in a restaurant has its advantages. When customers clabber down our concrete stairs in search of an excellent meal we have an opportunity to practice Spanish. And when people in San Pancho ask where we live, we say Sandra’s Restaurant. No address required.

Dog Tales

Our housekeeper Irma’s dog, Lincoln, trots behind her as she arrives at our house. He is a fluffy Maltese whose hair is always tinged with road dust. He settles into our garden in the shade of a palm tree to wait for Irma to finish work. If he dares to poke his nose inside the house he will quickly receive a harsh reprimand from Irma.

Arm outstretched, finger pointed, Irma commands “Vete!” “Get out!” And Lincoln will slink back to safety.

“Dogs don’t belong in the house, “she reminds me as if I had invited Lincoln inside.

She knows me. Or, she knows us Americans. We treat our dogs like members of the family; they’re mascotas, pets, and we spoil them. Not so in most Mexican households. Irma and her family love Lincoln, but he lives outside, at times in their yard, but usually in the neighborhood streets.

But Cuchin, who repaired and painted our garden wall last winter, sees things differently from other Mexicans. Most days, he brought his “baby, as he called his dog, with him to work. Cuchin’s “baby,” a tiny Chihuahua, was never far from his father’s loving and watchful eyes. Cuchin was quick to condemn neglectful dog owners. His dogs, he assured us, never left the house without him. Oh - and his other “baby” was a pit bull! Fortunately, Cuchin left him at home.

Dogs hang out all over San Pancho. The majority are thin, their coats dull and matted. Some have injuries from unfriendly encounters with other animals. Most are sadly neglected. Stretched out and snoozing, they are blissfully unaware of traffic or pedestrians detouring around them. Others are in mad pursuit of moving objects, frantically barking, chasing cars, bicycles, horses, and other dogs. Running in a pack, they are formidable, though harmless.

One stray, Suzy, often accompanied Nancy, Ellen and me, uninvited, on our daily hike. She was known about town and survived on the kindness of strangers. But on our hike, Suzy only created chaos. She bounded ahead of us and then stopped right in front of us. She challenged other strays we met along the way to the point of teeth baring conflict. She ran into the path of oncoming trucks. Screeching brakes and our frantic shouts shattered any illusion of a healthy hike. When she disappeared for a few days, we were relieved.

Ellen’s dog, Lola, on the other hand, is Miss Congeniality. Everyone loves her! So when she began to accompany us on our hikes, we welcomed her. Nancy even brought a special doggie water bottle back from the States to keep her well-hydrated. Lola enjoyed our walks at first, waiting impatiently for Ellen in the morning. But soon Lola began to question the wisdom of trekking up and down countless hills. Besides, she missed being the center of attention. We barely noticed her, focusing instead on covering a lot of ground conversationally.

One day as we approached the first hill of the trail, Lola simply sat down and refused to go any further. No more foolish hiking for her. Our cajoling, demanding, or threatening moved her. Unlike Suzy, Lola knew when enough was enough.

Living With Tlaquaches

My husband and I hadn't been in San Pancho long when we came upon an opossum clinging to a tree on our property. It had very scruffy grey-brown fur, a naked tail, cruel beady eyes and a mouthful of little teeth which it showed with a grin and a hiss. This animal had no charm whatsoever. Our Mexican neighbor was with us when we made the discovery.

“Tlaquache,” he said, and before we knew what was happening he had rushed home and returned with a worn .22 caliber rifle which looked as if it had seen the revolution. Mexicans, I believe, cannot legally own firearms, but it appears real men have them hidden away somewhere. Point blank he shot it. The animal made no sound or protest; it simply dropped. He hauled it up by the tail.

“Do you want it?” he politely inquired. We graciously permitted him to take it home to his stew pot.

That wasn’t the end of the tlaquaches. A couple of times after our seasonal absences, I have found nests built under bedside tables. Now and again one saunters across the patio, but they are shy and careful. Apparently they don't like the looks of us either.

One year we returned from our summer sojourn in New Mexico to find our bathroom full of flies and a smell which we took to be a sewer issue. Investigation revealed the flies to be coming from under the bathtub which had an opening in the tiled surround in case the plumbing should go wrong. What had gone wrong was that a tlaquache had gone in there and died. Jonathan pulled out the remains with a hooked piece of rebar. Actually it's not entirely unfair that men rule the world.

Another year, another tlaquache. Night after night we awoke as it scrabbled across our bedroom; there was no door to prevent its entry since our bedroom is a thatched pavilion. We reluctantly listened as it climbed and shook the lime tree and proceeded to click, yes, click, about once a second. A mating call, I’ve since learned. Jonathan would locate the tlaquache with the flashlight and it would freeze. Awake, annoyed and finding nothing erotic in the clicks, he began to fantasize its demise. His plan was to immobilize it with the flashlight and do it in with a length of pipe which he procured and put under the bed. We were never to know if he would actually go through with this mayhem because, though an opportunity soon presented itself, a certain caution required that first he put on his pants. While he was hopping into his pants legs, trying to keep the flashlight steady and get a hold of the pipe, the tlaquache unfroze and disappeared. In fact, Jonathan’s terrifying display scared it away for the rest of the year.

Last month I came running when I heard Jonathan roar from the bathroom. A tlaquache had walked in while he was showering. He said it looked like it had a full pouch. I can only hope it is the one which learned last year that Jonathan is not to be trifled with.

A Little Night Music

For centuries Mexico was a land in deep depression. It was no help that early religions were all too interested in human sacrifice or that the conquering Spanish enslaved the population, introduced diseases that killed millions, and brought over the Inquisition for good measure. The mood was not lifted by factional wars which raged around the country for well over a hundred years, or by the humiliating loss of California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas to the northern neighbor. Nevertheless, I suspect that the root cause of the depression was that amplified sound had not yet been invented. Gracias á Dios, this boon to Mexican happiness has now penetrated into every pueblo, and happy little San Pancho has an extra measure.

Our first Christmas here (and very nearly our last) was marked by a powerful demonstration of this gift of Very Loud Sound. On the stroke of midnight, at the moment of the Santo Niño’s birth, there rang out over San Pancho the ear-splitting and sleep-shattering sounds of music from speakers hauled up to our highest hill. This might have been moving if it had been the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” or “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” but, no, it was the same Ricky Martin tape that was the run away favorite that year. And it played over and over for a full twelve hours. Mr. and Mrs. Grinch lay aghast with pillows over our heads and in the morning went out to see what the neighbors thought. They loved it.

“En México somos libres,” our friend Hillaria likes to say. In Mexico we are free. Free from interference from those gringos who might have peculiar ideas about sound pollution, that’s for sure. And we know our status. Guests don’t complain—except to the other guests. It seems we never tire of trying to convince each other that we each live in the noisiest part of town.

It has taken my husband and me some years to adjust to what is one of the great cultural differences between the two sides of the border, especially when that difference expresses itself at night. Years—and earplugs close to hand.

Our neighbor over the back wall went through a rough patch a few years back. Every Friday and Saturday for four or five months he went out and drank until the 2 AM closing at the local cantina, came home, comforted himself with boom box at full volume, and passed out. Certainly that was the scene when, driven to desperation, my husband finally went over to ask him to damp it just a bit.

“Wow, he was cooperative,” I said as my husband crawled back into bed, a lovely silence all around.

“The door was open and all the lights blazing. I just went in and turned it off. He never moved,” he said wearily.

This gave us an idea. We knew his electric line led to a somewhat informal connection beside that of our next door neighbor and that the breaker was just over our wall. When the music jolted us awake, we would give him a couple of minutes and then go and flick the breaker. The electricity was only briefly interrupted but the tape player shut off. He never once turned it back on. We knew this was violating his freedom to have music whenever and however he wanted and we felt very guilty about it right up until we floated back to sleep. Please don’t tell.

To Each Her Own San Pancho

Seven years ago, when we first had houseguests in San Pancho, I wanted them to enjoy the same things I do about the town. I hoped they’d share my enthusiasm for ranchera music, sidewalk taco stands, and walks in the jungle. I wanted them to be interested in Mexican folk art and history, and to think it was fun to learn Spanish. Not surprisingly, it hasn’t always worked out like that. Our guests have appreciated San Pancho in their own unique ways.

When my 74-year old aunt Nancy visited us she was having problems with memory loss. She was aware of the loss, and it frustrated her. Earlier in her life she had lived in foreign countries and traveled widely, but now a new setting confused her. Our housekeeper’s name, the location of our street -- she struggled to remember, but she just couldn’t. Skip and I tried to make her visit interesting -- we didn’t think with much success -- until the morning we decided to make hot chocolate the old-fashioned Mexican way.

These days hot chocolate is usually made in a blender so it still has the essential foamy topping. But the traditional way is with a molinillo, a hand-carved wooden utensil that looks to me like a child’s top. We had a molinillo on hand, and we wanted to be authentically Mexican, but we had no idea how to use the thing.

Joaquina, our long-time housekeeper, stepped in and gave us a lesson. She and Nancy dissolved disks of Abuelita chocolate -- they look like hockey pucks -- in heated milk. Then Joaquina demonstrated how to rotate the molinillo between the palms of her hands to make the froth on top, the finishing touch. An accomplished cook, Nancy jumped right in and stirred up a batch of hot chocolate. “Molinillos and Abuelita will be the perfect gifts to take home to my kids,” she said. “We’ve got to go shopping.” Language barriers, Joaquina’s deafness, Nancy’s discomfort in a strange place--a lot of things could have gotten in the way that morning, but they didn’t.

Having had a lot of houseguests, I’ve figured out that some people like what I like, and some don’t. Some immerse themselves in the life of the town. Others want to bask in the pool, drink a few margaritas, and catch up on naps. And sometimes guests open my eyes to the small joys -- like making hot chocolate with a molinillo -- of living in Mexico.

Eme's Flan

Emerita Garcia Cervantes makes the best flan in San Pancho, we all say. “Eme” owns and runs Los Delfines Restaurant, a block up from the beach on the town’s main drag and open for supper. When she has a fresh batch of flan for sale, she props a Styrofoam plate against a small potted cactus that sits on a counter. “Hay flan,” the plate reads (There is flan.). Passers-by spread the word.

Eme turns out flan de coco (coconut), de queso(cheese), de café(coffee), and de vainilla(vanilla). Flan de coco seems to be the favorite, given the number of mentions it gets. All of the flans are rich and dense, the batter poured into cunning little tin pans called “flaneras” (yours for $8 in Mexican supermarkets and housewares stores), then steamed in a pressure cooker for an hour.

Eme’s pozole is also renowned. She only offers it on Saturday and Sunday nights, when it’s sometimes SRO at Los Delfines, a.k.a. Eme’s front porch, filled with plastic tables and chairs. Her chicken enchiladas are worth a wait, too; some say they’re the best they’ve ever had. My friend Helen, a New Yorker by way of London, editor at a major women’s magazine, and accomplished cook, visited San Pancho this year and declared Los Delfines her restaurant of choice after sampling meals all over town.

“It’s charming,” she said. “Plus the food is honest, flavorful, and preposterously economical.”

High praise well-earned for Eme, one of the hardest working women in town, whose day job is janitor at the local middle school. She’s a widow who raised two daughters alone, one of whom is just finishing up a university degree program.

Eme is generous, too. She’d be happy to share her flan recipe, she said, when approached by two of my house guests. She suggested we come watch her make it one Saturday morning. Afterward, we paid for her time without her asking. She could offer Mexican cooking classes, one of us enthused. She smiled but didn’t answer. Sure thing, I thought, what with all that extra time you've got.

Eme’s Coconut Flan

-½ cup white sugar

-1 can of condensed milk

-1 can of evaporated milk

-1 cup of whole milk

-5 eggs

-1 generous handful of sweetened coconut

1. Melt the sugar in the flanera, stirring as it liquefies. Coat the sides and bottom of the flanera.
2. Blend the condensed milk, evaporated milk, eggs, and coconut in a blender.
3. Pour the blender mix + the whole milk into the flanera simultaneously (don’t stir together).
4. Seal the flanera with foil; snap on its lid; place in a pressure cooker, and add water to reach half way up the side of the flanera.
5. Put the lid on the pressure cooker; over low flame, cook for 1 hour; remove from the cooker.
6. Cool at room temperature; refrigerate for a day before serving.

Caution: Construction Ahead

When we bought our property in 2001 the lot next door to us was vacant. During the next three years, we built our house and the lot next door to us was still vacant. The owner, a cousin to our housekeeper’s husband and a San Pancho resident, offered to sell it to us every year.

Seven years ago, it was $30,000 USD; then $50,000; then $80,000... We would make an offer, he’d up the price, we would make another offer, and the price would go up again. Eventually we gave up.

Property values are a topic near and dear to the hearts of people in San Pancho. Real estate offices line Avenida Tercer Mundo, the main street in town. Rivera Nayarit, the State of Nayarit’s ambitious resort development plan, is full speed ahead. A bright pink “Cultural Center” (read, sales office) compliments of Lemmus Corporation squats squarely on the new malecon, our ocean-front plaza. Oh, and the new malecon? It was a gift to the town, in part, by another development group!

So, we weren’t completely surprised to hear that we’d be getting our own development right next door. The owner decided not to sell his lot after all, but to build instead. And that’s when the information stream got muddy.

At various times we heard he was building a two- story house with a palapa (thatched palm) roof. We heard he was planning rental units; two units, then four, then six. As is typical in our neighborhood, everyone knew something, and no one really knew anything.

We watched with trepidation as the construction began and the building began to take shape just inches from our garden wall. Every day we’d assess the progress and second guess the design. We could greet the workers each morning by simply stepping out of our kitchen door.

The building’s setback from the street suggested a parking area in the front. That’s good, we thought and we were encouraged. An attractive, well- thought- out apartment building might be just fine.

But then, activity began at the rear of the lot next to our kitchen window. A beautiful shade tree disappeared.

“More building, another apartment?” we asked.

“Yes,” our housekeeper said.

“No,” her husband said, “a laundry room.”

“Which is it?” we asked again. Shoulders shrugged.

When the roof for the first floor was poured we watched in awe as a modern-day concrete truck mixed the concrete and a huge chute completed the pouring in less than three hours.

We waited and waited. Weeks went by. Surely the concrete must be set by now. Work on the second story could begin anytime. But it didn’t. And then we left San Pancho for our trip back to the States.

“What’s happening next door to us?” we incessantly asked in emails to friends.

“Nothing,” they said. “It looks the same as when you left.”

A sense of relief, albeit temporary, prevails. Maybe there won’t be a second floor after all, or a palapa top. Or it won’t be rental units. Who knows? The only given in our burgeoning real estate/construction environment is surprise.

Guess who's coming to dinner

The two-hour conversation, we hoped, was ready to wrap. Anselmo was a charming raconteur but the get-acquainted meeting had grown out of proportion. Yes, he would be happy to take care of the garden. Yes, he would be happy to begin immediately. Yes, he would be responsible for watering and maintenance during our summer sojourn in the States.

One hundred minutes and several cervezas later Anselmo had shared his life story. My husband and I tried to follow the twists and turns of the anecdotes but Anselmo’s dialect transcended classroom Spanish. My niggling headache inched toward meltdown.

Anselmo made a motion to stand. We popped up in encouragement.
"It would be an honor to invite you to dinner," he said, using sign language to facilitate our understanding. "My wife makes excellent ceviche. She will cook for you." Anselmo kissed his fingers in appreciation of her cuisine.

"Thank you," I said. "We would be happy to meet her. Where do you…"
"We will come here, to your house. We will bring everything. Tomorrow, five o’clock."

Anselmo and Maya arrived on the dot dressed in crisp cotton pressed for a party. Glossy black hair pulled into a tight chignon, lipstick impossibly red, Maya was lovely in her middle years. She nodded hello, almost smiled. Plump arms embraced an assortment of bowls, sacks, the accoutrements of a confident cook. Dark eyes darted beyond me, assessing the kitchen. She bustled to the island counter. Anselmo followed toting a six pack of beer and bottle of tequila.

"The water was shut-off early today," I said. "We still have water in the tinaco (cistern). Will you be able…"
Maya shrugged. "No problema," she said.

My husband and I took seats at the counter. Anselmo passed us each a beer.
"It is the freshest fish," he said, his English broken but confident. "Huachinango, cooking all day in the lime." He proceeded to describe how Maya had cleaned, cubed the red snapper, submerged the chunks in a lime and water concoction that cooks without heat. As Maya pulled from sacks the rest of the ingredients, a vocabulary lesson ensued.

"Apio," she said, pointing to the long limbs of celery. "Cebolla…aguacate…ajo," she continued, spreading out on the counter onion, avocado, garlic. "Chipotle…cilantro…"

"I know cilantro," I said, pleased with myself. "I like cilantro."
Maya nodded. "Jugo," she said, pulling out cans of V8 juice.

Cutting board requested and produced, Maya set to work, the chop of her blade performance art. My husband and I pulled back a bit as we watched the speed and swipe of a pro.

Dinner was delicious. The ceviche tender, almost sweet, served atop corn tortillas crisped in salted oil. Sliced avocados on the side. Cold beer, tequila shots to cement a new friendship.

I wanted to repay Maya and Anselmo for the excellent dinner. I would prepare for them a specialty of my own: shrimp empananda, black beans, bananas baked in honey and cream.

We found Anselmo at his home, extended our invitation.
"What day is best with you and Maya?"
"Martes. Tuesday, next Tuesday," he said. Spanish chased by English to make sure we understood. "Six o’clock."

The following Monday I drove to Puerto Vallarta, 45 minutes south, to shop at a supermarket replete with food stuffs not always available in San Pancho’s small sidewalk stores. Shrimp, large and fresh, cream cheese, Parmesan, black beans, epazote and oregano. An assortment of olives, marinated crudites, imported wafers to whet the appetite.

I began preparation early Tuesday morning. Devein shrimp, saute with garlic, nestle on tortillas slathered in cream cheese, dust with Parmesan, fold in half, refrigerate until time to bake; cook black beans, mash, refry in olive oil, oregano, epazote; whip the sauce to top bananas.

At five-thirty I was ahead of my game. Food kept warm, tapas arranged on the coffee table, wine and beer chilled. My husband suggested I was trying too hard. Maya and Anselmo would be happy with whatever I could throw together, he said. I ignored him, rummaged in the cupboard for colorful cotton napkins.

Six o’clock and we were in position. Six-thirty came and went.
"Thirty minutes is not necessarily late in this culture," my husband said, checking his watch against the clock on the bar.
But seven o’clock is more than fashionably late, I decided. We nibbled around the edges of the crudite platter.

Eight o’clock, eight-thirty, nine o’clock. We decided there must have been a misunderstanding. I began to reheat dinner then opened the wine. We selected a DVD with plans to settle in for the evening.

Five minutes later Anselmo bounded down the stairs that led from the street to our garden living room. "I have the head of a camaron!" he said. He thumped the side of his head to demonstrate its physical similarity to an oversize shrimp.

Not waiting for an invitation to "Pase," he plopped down on the couch, spread his knees to accommodate belly girth, thumped his head again for good measure. Maya followed him down the stairs.

Their explanation was delivered with a flurry of gestures. They had gone to dinner at a friend’s restaurant. After a couple of beers and hefty blue-plate specials, Maya suddenly remembered our dinner invitation. So here they were.

"Uh," I began, "would you like something to eat?"
"Gracias," said Anselmo. "But we are stuffed to here!"
Cervezas, however, would be appreciated. Maya and Anselmo settled in for long conversation. Too polite to eat in front of them, we kept our dinner on the back burner.

The incident discombobulated me. But since then I’ve learned a thing or two about living here: sometimes people lose sense of time; sometimes people accept invitations just to be polite; and sometimes people hesitate to socialize with those who hire them.

My learning curve continues its ascent.

A Walk in the Jungle

San Pancho, population 2000 or so depending on the season, doesn’t really offer a lot of options when it comes to exercise: no gym, no Pilates, no Jazzercise, no spinning, no step. Even the beach is no good for swimming much of the time, thanks to an undertow. What we do have is a rutted unpaved road, full of steep ups and downs , that cuts through the jungle for miles. So Gail, Nancy, and I use it most mornings for an hour and a half walk that is a serious workout.

Ex-joggers, we know what a brisk pace feels like, and we spur each other on, barely noticing the spectacular scenery---chacalaca birds swooping through the trees above, surf pounding the sandy coves below, coconut palms leaning over the road along our route. The walk is good, and the talk is even better. We have a lot to talk about, sixty-somethings with multiple marriages, kids, and careers under our belts.

“What were the odds,” we often say to each other, “that we’d find kindred spirits in a tiny town in Mexico?”

Actually, the odds were pretty good, because of something else we have observed here. When you don’t have a lot of choices, you appreciate more the ones you have been given. So when a local baker makes whole wheat bread, a mom-and-pop grocery installs an ATM, or a cell phone tower appears on a nearby hill, you’re thrilled. Just as a former exercise class dropout like me savors a walk in the jungle with two friends I hold dear.

___________________________________________________________________

Mexican expression:
“Es más para allá que para acá.” S/he’s over the hill.

What Do We See In Frida?

Frida Kahlo by Oaxacan ceramicist Josefina Aguilar

Frida Kahlo’s intense eyes gaze at me in every gift shop along Avenida Tercer Mundo, San Pancho’s main street. Tiny Frida self-portraits pasted on matchboxes. Giant Frida faces imprinted on scarves. Frida and her pet monkeys decoupaged onto the frames of mirrors.

I have assembled a small collection of Frida items -- two pink tote bags; an evening purse; a doll; a Frida-with-monkeys picture; and, most precious of all, a six-inch high ceramic statue that I bought in Oaxaca.

Of course Frida is a world-renowned artist, but what is it about her that makes me and a lot of other people want to buy Frida paraphernalia? How did she become an icon? She’s practically a symbol of Mexico.

If we know the circumstances of her life, maybe she inspires us, or we identify with her. She survived personal tragedies, physical disabilities, and tempestuous relationships. All those life experiences became the substance of her art.

It could be that she touches our desire to challenge convention, as she did. To me there’s a message in that famous eyebrow and in her little mustache: “I am who I am, and I’ve got my own idea of what’s beautiful. No apologies.”

And beautiful she was, all decked out with flowers, ribbons, and jewelry. The exotic persona she created was a work of art in itself.

When I carry my Frida tote bag in New Haven, where I live when I’m not in Mexico, strangers stop to compliment me. Frida may be commonplace in San Pancho, but she’s a rarity in Connecticut. All of my Frida mementos are in Connecticut, because, when I have my Frida things, I’ve got a little bit of Mexico with me.

Traveling

It was late, the road was dark, very dark, and it was starting to rain. We’d been driving for more than ten hours and we were exhausted. On our way back to the States from San Pancho, the short cut from Guadalajara to Zacatecas had been a mistake. It had been hours since we’d seen anywhere to stay the night.
Just outside of Saltillo, my husband Bill and I saw the sign flickering in the distance.
“Does that sign say ‘motel’?” he asked me.
“I think it does” I said. “What a relief. And I don’t care what it looks like, we’re stopping!”
I didn’t have to be so emphatic. Bill pulled into the courtyard without hesitation and stopped near the office. We looked around, amazed. The courtyard was softly lit, the music of a fountain, barely audible. We were surrounded by what appeared to be two- story houses, garages on the ground level, apartments above. An office, with large glass window, appeared positioned to provide surveillance similar to air traffic control. A woman from the office approached our car. I got out to greet her.
“Buenas noches, good evening,” I said.
"Buenas noches, good evening Senora.” she replied.
She asked how we were and I asked her as well. She was fine, we were very tired. I asked if she had a room available.
“Por cuanto horas, Senora?” she asked. For how many hours? Hmmm, did I hear that right?
I leaned into the car and repeated the question to Bill. She wants to know how many hours we’d like to have the room. Bill looked at his watch, its 11:00 pm, and did a quick calculation. “Seven or eight, we don’t want to have to leave at dawn,” he said.
Seven or eight hours I suggested.
“Siete o ocho horas, Senora?” she asked in an incredulous tone. I’m puzzled.
“Is this a problem?” I asked.
She shook her head and smiled. No, she assured me and asked for 400 pesos,
“Its forty dollars,” I said.
“Fine, tell her its fine.” He handed me the money.
She pointed to a garage just behind us, number 3, and motioned to us to back up. Signaling to someone in the office, the garage door opened, and we pulled inside. The automatic door slid down silently.
We both got out and looked around as if we had just executed a moon landing. From all indications, we were still earthbound; it was just a garage. We walked toward the spiral staircase that was directly ahead of us and flipped a wall switch which sent soft lighting upward toward the door at the top.
We entered a room which could only be described as a bed with a room around it. It was king-size and then some. Directly across from the bed was a panoramic mirror bordered by light bulbs reminiscent of a Hollywood marquee.
"This is amazing," I said, staring at the furnishings. Bill was wandering around the room. He picked up the menu on the dresser.
"Look, they have snacks, beer and wine." he said. Reading the menu over his shoulder, I noted, "mostly beer and wine."
"And it arrives via this little dumbwaiter," he said, demonstrating the way the order would arrive.
"They've thought of everything,” I added, waving the condoms that I'd discovered were on the night table and in the bathroom.
Admittedly, we were tired. But it took us awhile to put it all together. The room rental by the hour, the closed, secure parking, the mirrored wall and enormous bed, the dumbwaiter; we’d have a good night’s rest in one of Mexico’s famous “no-tell” motels.

Front and Center at the Circus

I remember it was Ash Wednesday when the circus came to town. Even the hoochy koochy dancer had a smudge on her forehead.

All day there had been a great to-do in the pasture across from the soccer field in San Pancho. I dallied as I walked to and from the store and joined clusters of townspeople watching the circus men setting up. The elephant carried heavy things and pulled on ropes, an experienced part of the team. Spindly bleachers, a stage, a tall center pole and a canvas curtain split by a ticket booth around the outside. This was a big circus, as Mexican touring circuses go. Besides the elephant, a giraffe, a pony, and an emu lounged in a corral under the enormous tulipan tree. Well back from the gaggle of children, barred circus wagons contained five tigers and three lions.

At least half the town of San Pancho gathered for the eight o’clock show. Our little group of foreigners contemplated the ten peso bleachers or the thirty peso plastic chairs by the ring, and, feeling a little embarrassed at being such big spenders, went for the back rest. Our chairs were so close to the wooden blocks forming the ring that we used them as a foot stool.

After the opening act—a chubby little teenager dancing like she was twirling a hoola hoop—a clown ran around the ring with the emu on a leash. That turned out to be the pattern: an act, then the emu. There was quite a good tightrope walker on a very high rope. She was pretty and spangly and practically overhead as we sat up against the ring. She had a smudge, too. Then the emu. Acrobats and jugglers. One slip and we could have been beaned with a club. Again the emu.

The elephant was brought out. It did the usual elephant tricks: standing on hind legs with trunk curled, balancing on front legs and trunk, four legs together on a small platform, and, between each trick, it defecated. The crowd screamed with delight. At ring side, we collapsed in laughter and held our aching sides. As each pile was deposited, a clown with a wheel barrow and shovel ran out, loaded up, “accidently” dumped it over, loaded up again. People were nearly falling off the bleachers. Finally, the departure of the elephant and the appearance of the emu allowed us to regain some composure.

Something for the kiddies. Here came the pony, no saddle or bridle. Overhead a boom was attached to a central pole so that it could swing around 360 degrees. A harness was strapped on a little boy who had eagerly run up when volunteers from the audience were called for. From the harness a rope passed through a ring on the tip of the boom and down to the hands of one of the jugglers. The child was placed on the pony which trotted off around the ring but with nothing to hold onto, the child began to slip. Now clearly the juggler was supposed to pull the rope and swing him up into the air just in time. Well, he didn’t. First the child hit the ground, hard, then he was pulled up, swinging wildly. The crowd thought this was nearly as hilarious as the elephant. The mother ran out, laughing too, and caught the child when he came back down and the juggler covered with a Ta-Da sort of pose as though he had performed a great feat of skill. I suspect this act was intended to have several little victims, but under the circumstances, we were diverted by having the giraffe, rather than the emu, paraded around the ring.

There followed a clown comedy act featuring a stuffed phallus—always a crowd pleaser—then a girl performed high up on a dangling rope with a fat older woman alternately swinging or steadying the bottom. The girl was in full costume; the woman in a none-too-clean t-shirt, as if she were invisible to the crowd.

The elephant reappeared to give rides to the children. The pony debacle forgotten, kids clamored to be handed up, first to the top of a ladder and then to the broad back. Five at a time, with little legs splayed and holding on to the child in front, they bounced off for a rapid trot around the ring.

Naturally, the best was saved for last. The roustabouts ran out with heavy sections of iron caging. These were assembled in a circle close against the inside of the wooden ring—about a foot from our knees. Platforms of different heights were placed inside, the circus wagons were pushed up to a raised door and all the tigers and lions were let into the cage. We decided we didn’t need the ring blocks as a footrest after all. The lion tamer entered and whipped the cats to their pedestals. They roared, snarled and batted their paws in classic fashion, but we could smell these guys, we could see what looked very much like real annoyance, or worse, in their eyes. It was actually scary—I had never before appreciated the courage of a lion tamer as he turned his back and postured for the crowd. No wonder he had found time that day to go to church for his ashes.

The cats jumped from pedestal to pedestal, rose on their haunches, leapt through flaming hoops. Then a lion got off her pedestal and wouldn’t get back up, snarling menacingly. Part of the act? Suddenly, a dog—our neighbor’s cocker spaniel, in fact—apparently decided that enough was enough and ran up close to the bars, barking ferociously. The cats turned in unison and looked at her. Another lion got down from a stand and snarled in the direction of the dog. With the cats distracted and disoriented, the tamer prudently took the opportunity to declare the act over. The exit door was raised and, with lots of whip cracking and chair thrusting, the cats were induced to return to their wagons.

Cue exit music. Thoroughly entertained, the crowd dispersed into the sultry night. As we strolled home, Mataleón (Lion Killer), as we called the dog ever after, trotted nearby, around the corner and into her yard, head held high.

"Manana" means "not today"

For eleven months, I waited for repair guys to fix my new stovetop. It needed a regulator to temper the flames that shot a foot high and blackened my pans with soot. The regulator was on order and coming from Brazil, the repair shop said every time I called. It would probably arrive “mañana.” Week after week, month after month, the answer was the same.

The swoosh of fire startled me and guest chefs whenever we turned on a burner. Black grime coated not only my pots and pans but everything they came in contact with---hands, counters, sponges we used by the dozen. This was untenable, I repeatedly told a hapless clerk on the other end of the line. But apparently I was wrong. At the six month point, I stopped calling, dedicated a rag to the exteriors of my cookware, and unconsciously decided to live with the stovetop as is. Five months later, I happened to be home when the repair guys showed up with the part, happy to be of service, no apologies offered or expected.

Mexico, at least small town Mexico as I know it, has taught me the same lesson over and over: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Like that great scene in the old movie “Meatballs,” where Bill Murray chants “It just doesn’t matter, it just doesn’t matter, it just doesn’t matter.” You finally get that, in your gut, if you live here long enough. For me, it’s not about settling for less. It’s about letting go of a sense of urgency. When I allow that to happen, I feel light and free.

The Coconut Palm

Babes in the tropics, my husband Jonathan and I bought our property in the Mexican village of San Pancho largely because it had four magnificent coconut palms. Over time, falling coconuts have led us to axe three, replace two smashed roofs, repair broken paving and haul away crushed flower pots. It is not pretty to contemplate the meeting of a coconut descending at terminal velocity and one of our heads, thus, the yearly ritual of bringing in cocoteros to defang the last palm standing.

Cocoteros—guys who climb the trees and clean out the cocos—are not, as a rule, steady citizens. You have to be something of a cowboy to shimmy up that 30 foot trunk with your machete and crawl around the spiky canopy with spiders and biting ants, hacking loose and lowering clusters which could weigh a hundred pounds. Cocoteros work in pairs. The one who remains on the ground, likely the smarter one, receives the bunches and carts them to the street. When the well-paid job is done and the dead fronds, called palapas, and detritus cleaned up, the cocos can be sold as bonus.

Last year we waited too long to have the tree cleaned and the coconuts were falling, so when Diego appeared at the door and offered to do the job, we eagerly accepted his bid. We had only about half the fee on hand so my husband drove off to the nearest ATM.

Soon, Diego returned with Ramon whom we recognized as one of the surfers at the beach. Shirtless and tanned, black boxers fashionably visible above his baggy pants, he finished the edgy theme with wrap-around shades and shoulder-length hair. Diego was older, calm, with deep, smiling eyes. He was the one with the social graces to interact with me, admiring the house, asking for drinking water and the garden rake whose name translates “spider broom.”

Our property is walled for privacy. Inside are separate, largely open rooms—living, dining, kitchen, bedrooms, baths and studio. In the center is the garden with its coconut palm. Where I sat reading in the living room, the tree was between me and a new, still doorless, bathroom.

Ramon mounted the tree. Soon fronds were crashing to the patio and bunches of cocos gliding down on yellow nylon rope. Thirty minutes later when the tree was coco-free, Ramon climbed down and joined Diego in cleaning up around it. With their machetes they hacked the twelve-foot-long palapas into manageable lengths and piled them with immature coconut clusters and other tree-trash in a large mound in the driveway. They accepted half the fee with agreement to return later for the rest and hauled off the coconuts.

It was a hot day and as soon as they left I jumped in the shower. That time of year—May—two showers a day seem just about right. But when I reached for my razor to shave my legs, it was gone. I knew that it had been on top of the tiled shower partition and I knew immediately what had happened to it.

When Jonathan got back with the money, I told him that I thought the cocoteros had made off with my razor. He is always ready to see the best in people and he looked for a reason not to believe it. He tried the theory that they wouldn’t even want it since the replacement cartridges for the fancy multiple-blade razor are so expensive here in Mexico. Nevertheless, and with all due reluctance to blame unjustly, I stuck to my accusation. The cocoteros were coming back for the money, and I wanted Jonathan, with his superior Spanish, to Say Something. He was between a wife and a hard place, but he’s good at problems like this.

“The señora is missing her razor and wonders if it might have fallen on the floor and been swept up with the trash from the coconut palm,” Jonathan told Diego and Ramon when they returned. Ramon looked at the sky. Diego looked at the ground. Yes, Diego said, they would be glad to go through the heap. First he had to pay a bill at the tienda but they’d be right back to look. When they returned there was a showy rummage through the pile, and ¡Que milagro! A miracle! There it was. It had been swept up with the trash. Loud, nearly giddy, laughter all around at the perfection of the resolution. Our small-town relationships were salvaged for another day.