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.