Ten Things I Learned in Ten Years

2009 was the 10th anniversary of our marriage to San Pancho. In 1999 we bought a plot of land; in 2000 we began building a house; and in 2001 we spent our first winter here. We loved the place then, and we still do, but our love has matured. No longer are we starry-eyed newly-weds.

Because 2009 is a milestone year, and it is ending, I am prompted to take stock. I offer these observations, in no particular order, for anyone contemplating wedlock with San Pancho.

1.Being handy is helpful. Anything with moving parts will malfunction in this climate. Neither my husband nor I is a Do-It-Yourself genius, but we regularly repair blenders, toasters, printers, the kitchen range, the barbeque grill, the sewing machine, and the disposal. And we still need to call the electrician/plumber about once a week.
2.Traveling between the U.S. and San Pancho is time-consuming and expensive. Given that we live in Connecticut, spending winters in Florida would be simpler, but, in my opinion, boring. Every day here brings its own little adventure.
3.Owning a home in San Pancho costs more than we expected. True, there is no heating expense, and labor is cheaper. However, the mildew, termites and jungle vegetation must be kept at bay when we are not here, and we have to pay people to do that.
4. Learning to manage household help is, for me, an ongoing process. It is too easy to become preoccupied with what the “help” is doing or not doing.
5. Being able to speak Spanish, even if one is not fluent, makes life easier. The Spanish classes I took at the community college have proved invaluable. I can talk to the guy at the hardware store and to my Mexican neighbors.
6.Life in Mexico is not orderly. For instance, in Bucerias, a town near the line between Mountain and Central time zones, business owners arbitrarily choose which zone they prefer. This kind of unpredictability can be charming or infuriating.
7.One can learn to sleep in the midst of crowing roosters, blaring disco music, barking dogs and raucous partiers. I will never understand the Mexican cultural norm about noise. I have concluded that, since I am a guest in this country, I should accept its noisiness or go somewhere else.
8. Part of the fun of living here is doing things differently than we do in the U.S.. We don’t have cable television in San Pancho, so we read more. Instead of cooking our usual fare, we experiment with Mexican ingredients. We take time out to watch the sunset.
9. We have become more conscious of health and safety risks. We are older, and we have seen friends run into problems. Now we don’t drive at night, we carry a cell phone, and we buy medical evacuation coverage.
10. Maintaining friendships and activities in both the U.S. and Mexico--a book group, a class, a volunteer activity—is a challenge. The reward for my constant balancing act is that I have two hometowns, two places where I belong.

365 Days of Me Time

Leaving Puerto Vallarta for the drive up the coast to San Pancho, the billboards and banners almost blot out the azure sky. Buy into this! Buy into that! The signs for Los Amores (The Lovers) show an impossibly beautiful couple, retirement age, smiling at each other as though the Viagra shipment has just come in. Another announces: You’ve Been Good—You Deserve It. An older man grins like the cat that got the cream. He deserves that infinity edge pool, those lounge chairs…possibly that swimsuited beauty, too. Life Built Around You. Life! The whole enchilada. Resorts, spas, beach clubs, residences, condominiums—Invest! All this is for people with Lifestyle Addiction. Could that be us? Those ripped bodies outlined by gauzy white cotton in the ocean breeze? We no longer care for the environment, the common good; we’re not our brother’s keepers—it’s 365 Days of Me Time, 24/7.

It was August when I wrote that; now it is December. The sky is an even deeper blue and the temperature has cooled to perfection, but The Crisis has come upon us. On the drive, I count 127 empty billboards. Only a few bother to plead Disponible (Available). About 40 others wait to be put out of their misery, so faded and tattered that their messages are no longer legible. Everybody said they were overbuilding condos…Now, no matter how good you’ve been, perhaps you don’t deserve a second or third home. In fact, you’d better hope you can live on love.

I'm a Bad Boss

I’m no good at managing household help. Never had so much as a cleaning lady back in the States. Now Lady Got-Rocks has a maid, gardener, and pool man. If I had my druthers, everyone would just do their jobs with no instructions or feedback required from me. Sometimes I even plan my runs to Vallarta to coincide with their work hours so I don’t have to watch someone make my bed and wash up my breakfast dishes.

But every worker needs to feel appreciated, good performance noticed and commented on. So I force myself to remember with notes in my day planner: Compliment Ana for cleaning the ceiling fans; kibitz with Manuel about how healthy the plumbagos look. As if it were a chore for me to say something nice.

Nor do I deal well with poor performance. I limped along with Manuel for three years, watching as scores of plants and palms died from lack of water, weeds and dry leaves cluttered the grounds, irrigation and water filtration systems deteriorated for lack of maintenance. Manuel is a smart, talented guy who knew what needed doing. The two of us talked about corrective action but not much happened, especially when I was in California, as kindly neighbors recently pointed out. Neighbors who had rescued Manuel with small, no-interest loans almost as many times as his employer had.

“If you weren’t trying to sell part of your place, we probably wouldn’t even bring this up,” they said to me last week. “Manuel is a nice man, and we like him. But we see you’re trying to spruce up the garden with new plants that aren’t being taken care of.”

For the previous two months, in my absence, they had jotted down the number of hours Manuel came to work: My supposed Monday-through-Friday, 7 A.M.-to-noon caretaker showed up two days a week for all of an hour.

That did it. My hand was forced; I had to act. But to fire him without having clearly stated that his job was on the line seemed unfair and contradicted all my previous-life preaching as a human resources manager about progressive discipline. It also seemed unfair that I’d have to fork over a big severance (“finiquito”) amount if I fired him. Gringos rarely prevailed in fired-for-just-cause hearings; settlement amounts varied wildly and were often exorbitant.

So I did four things:

1. I talked to Manuel about his breach of trust, about the improvements I needed to see, about the fact that he could lose his job if the improvements didn’t happen.

2. I found someone to act as his supervisor and informed Manuel that he would now have a new boss. As expected, Manuel balked at this arrangement. "If you are so unhappy with my work, I might be forced to resign," he said.

3. I spoke with an accountant who figured out the much-reduced severance amount if Manuel were to resign(FYI: for a three-year, part-time employee, 10 days of vacation + 15 days of Christmas bonus [“aguinaldo”]) I told Manuel that I would pay him that amount plus five extra days to sweeten the deal.

4. I pleaded with the universe to please, oh please, let Manuel to see the wisdom of resigning.

The universe responded. Manuel took my offer and signed a letter of resignation. A new gardener starts next week. And I’ve learned my lesson. Like it or not, in person or in absentia, I need to step up to being a better boss. It’s only fair.

Waiting At The Bank

Our mission: to retrieve records of our closed Bancomer checking account. The only person who could process that request, the teller told us, was the branch manager, so we signed our names in the designated notebook and took seats in the waiting area.

The bank was crowded that morning, and despite a long line to see the manager, the atmosphere was friendly and convivial. Decorations for a special offer on checking accounts added a festive touch; balloon arches framed the doorways and giant bows festooned teller stations. Pre-school children were everywhere. They crawled on and under the chairs, wandered in and out of executive offices, and watched cartoons on the television suspended from the ceiling. A Mexican lady sat down next to me, explained her banking problem, and asked about my family. A Canadian man and I speculated about why the teller had refused to cash his traveler’s checks.

I had assumed customers would be taken in order, but that wasn’t the case. Except for my husband and me, hapless Americans not accustomed to Mexican banks, no one paid attention to whose name was next in the sign-in book. An hour passed. Lunch time came and went.

For awhile I diverted myself by studying the promotional materials for the checking account offer. Posters of a lady flipping pancakes with a spatula explained: Open a new account or increase your balance by $6500 pesos and you will receive a boxed set of stainless steel kitchen utensils--two cooking spoons, a spatula, a soup ladle, a masher and a stand for hanging them on. At least 20 people picked up utensil sets. We were still waiting.

When at last we were seated in the manager’s office, another customer walked in and began to explain her problem. Still typing our data into her computer, the manager responded in the manner of a kindly social worker. A half hour later the manager had processed our request, and, finally, we were done. But, she told us, we would need to return in a week to pick up our records.

Waiting for a delivery, a repair person, the house painter, the bank manager-- we spend a lot of time waiting in Mexico. I’m still not used to it, and it tries my patience. We have to see that bank manager again, and I’m not sure what I will do. Barge into her office, and risk being regarded as an arrogant American? Sit politely while other customers jump the line? I am still pondering.

Remembering Doña Conchita

On November 2, at the Day of the Dead celebration in San Sebastián, my husband and I gazed sadly at the ofrenda, the altar, dedicated to the memory of Doña Conchita Sanchez Encarnación who died four months ago. Under the portal on the plaza, at the Presidencia, the Pabellón, and El Fortin Restaurant, white draped altars, rising in tiers, honored her and other lost neighbors. There were loving arrangements of photos and candles, dresses or jackets, mirrors positioned to reflect the still-living, bowls of corn kernels, beans, crosses formed of sand, and golden flowers—not here the showy pom-pom marigold, but a modest, wild variety from roadsides and back gardens. And, to the right of each altar, a metal wash stand holding a simple white enamel bowl and pitcher, chipped and dented. Jews and Moslems wash before praying for the dead; symbolically, so does Catholic San Sebastián.

Doña Conchita had turned her front room into a museum. It was a popular stop for visitors who listened to her recitation of the “I’m My Own Grandpa” convolutions of three families who vowed to intermarry in order to preserve la purissima sangre, their Spanish bloodline. Her collection of studio wedding pictures, old furniture, chests, scrip from the mines, a silk and lace christening dress fit for royalty, and photos of generations of babies wearing it, was San Sebastián captured in its heyday.

A year or so ago, we visited Doña Conchita with an electronic recorder and asked her to tell us more stories about her life and the history of the town. We didn’t have to beg. She told how her family fled during the revolution, locked their valuables in a room, and went off with the key. They were quite indignant that the room, though still locked, was empty when they returned thirty years later. And she told us about a famous tragedy: A wedding party, everyone who was anyone in San Sebastián, went out on an excursion boat in Lake Chapala. As it pulled to shore, they rushed the side and overturned. The bridegroom (from Hacienda La Quinta) was drowned, among many others, when he tried to rescue a child. The bride was pulled from the water by a man who tried for the rest of their lives to get her to marry him. Her answer remained the same: “I am already promised.”

Biblioteca Publica Municipal

En route from the U.S. to Nayarit, we were on the road for five days. We’d driven through the sparse, semi-deserts of Durango and Chihuahua and confronted snarling traffic and complicated construction detours through Zacatecas City. San Pancho was still eight hours away. As if a ball of yarn were slowly unraveling, the thread between our two homes lengthened with each mile.

Outside of Zacatecas City a sign announced the tiny town of Santa María de Los Angeles. We wound through the narrow cobblestone streets and bumped over the topes. At the zocalo, the town center, we stopped. The morning quiet of the plaza invited a pause in our journey.

In the square lush flowering plants surrounded concrete benches. At the center was a bandstand, a faded beauty with filigreed wrought-iron railings.

I crossed the park to the buildings on the opposite side. Their decorative facades, with cornices and columns and ornate lettering announced their official status: the Centro de Municipio, the Auditorio Municipal and the Biblioteca Publica, the public library!

Irresistible! The door to the library was open. I peered inside. In the small entry hall a brightly-colored bulletin board had an October display--a science theme with stories about Galileo and telescopes. Next to the Bienvenidos greeting, a sign-in log and suggestion box. a dispenser of hand-sanitizer. No eating or drinking, another sign cautioned in Spanish!

Five children looked up at me from the small, wooden tables where they sat, books spread open in front of them. I smiled, hesitated. As if on cue, their heads turned to look at the woman at the desk a few feet away. Aware of their attention, she put aside her papers, noted my presence.

“¿Puedo ayudarle, May I help you?” the librarian asked. “Quisiera echar una mirada alrededor, I would like to look around,” I responded.

“Por supuesto, of course,” she answered, smiling.

The central room, silent and hushed, was dimly lit, long and narrow with groups of tables in the center. Book shelves lined the walls. Drawings, displays, stories, maps and paintings filled every available space. I stopped first at the non-fiction, books, the Dewey Decimal numbers neatly written on their spines, then at the reference books—Mexican history, encyclopedias and a dictionary. Too big for the shelves they resided on a solid wooden cart. On the back wall, clearly alphabetized, was a smaller selection of adult fiction. Finally, on lower shelves, within easy reach of small hands, all of the children’s books. I almost missed the color- coded card catalog: search by title, author, and topic.

I breathed in the sense of order and calm, the familiar comfort of the library, and I thought about the small neighborhood library where I worked this summer. Our library had computers, printers and busy telephones, so the hushed reverence of this biblioteca was a thing of the past. Still, isn’t time spent in the company of books the same world-over?

I approached the librarian. “Thank you, I said, “You have a wonderful library.”

I wish my Spanish had been up to the task of telling her more. I wanted to tell her that those of us who work in libraries are very lucky. I wanted to say that nothing is as welcoming as a library’s open door. I wanted to explain how the ends of the thread are tied together for me now.

Good Kids

Many of San Pancho’s teenagers attend the closest public high school in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, a village 10 miles away. No school bus picks them up; they wait along the highway for the same “Pacifico” buses everyone uses. I taught English for a few years at their school, CETMAR #6 (Centro de Estudios Tecnologicos del Mar). So when I spot kids in uniform, I feel as though I know them and offer them a lift.

My students were good kids. “Hasta nobles/almost noble,” said one of my co-workers about some of them. They had their issues, of course, but in my experience, disciplining themselves in the classroom was rarely a problem. A few reasons for this come to mind.

First, they knew each other really well. Coming from neighboring small towns around the Bay, they chose a major, e.g. marine mechanics, industrial fishing, accounting, were organized into co-ed groups of about 40, and were given a space to call their own (teachers were the rovers, moving from room to room). The group then stayed together for all their classes throughout the three years of high school.

(Shameless book plug alert!) As I described in Remember the Sweet Things, “the affection they felt for each other was palpable; the help they gave one another on assignments impressive. No one was ostracized; loners self-selected to remain aloof. In my three years at CETMAR, I never witnessed a deliberate unkind act in my classroom---these kids bore with or laughed off the loudmouth, the mentally challenged, the too-cool-for-school, the deaf-mute, the prima donna with the only cell phone who had permission to be excused every twenty minutes ‘to take a very important call.’ “

Second reason for strong classroom discipline: The group elected a leader every year and gave the position teeth. This was not a popularity contest---the group expected its leader to motivate performance and maintain order. So did the school administration. Usually a top student served as group leader. If teachers had a problem with a student, they could ask for help from the group leader who might also provide a more complete picture of what was happening in that kid’s life. Appropriate, I think, in this Mexican relationship-centered world, where who you are counts for as much as what you do.

Third reason: It cost something to stay in school, and you value what you pay for. CETMAR students paid for transportation, lunch, classroom supplies (jugs of water, chalk, enamel board markers, erasers). They even paid for their handouts and tests(50 centavos per sheet). So to fool around and waste this opportunity for an education was to also waste someone’s hard-won money. My students, predominantly working class kids, seemed wise enough to appreciate and act on this fact of their life.

Doors of San Pancho

As I walk around San Pancho, I notice details I wouldn’t see if I drove the same route. The doors of houses especially catch my eye. A patchwork of designs, colors, styles and materials, they give a glimpse of the town’s past, its social strata and its distinctive character.

Scattered throughout San Pancho are homes the federal government built in the 1970s to replace the village’s palm frond huts, and all have the same door: sheet metal on the bottom, frosted glass covered by bars on the top. Near these modest places are recently built, architect-designed homes. Casa Palmera, for example, has a handsome colonial-style door made of wood and embellished with fancy architectural hardware. A little eye-level door-within-the-door allows the owner to peek out and see who is knocking.

On San Pancho’s main street is what I call the “Picasso door”: an abstract design of a brown cat on a background of electric blue. Cunning pink door knobs form the cat’s mouth. I speculate that one of the town’s many artists lives in that house.

Outside the village proper the doors, like the houses, tend to be more uniformly upscale. My favorite is at Casa Cielito. Made of aged wood weathered to bluish-gray, this door looks like it came from an old hacienda. Its rustic quality makes a perfect contrast to the clean, modern lines of the entry surrounding it.

The prize for ambitious building design goes to what is known locally as the “Taj Mahal,” a villa with adjoining rental units. Domes, finials, pointed arches, balconies and balustrades—the building does indeed resemble the Taj Mahal. Except for the doors. They are like the sheet metal ones used in San Pancho’s earliest houses. Maybe the builder ran out of money.

Morelia Supermarket

Brightly colored flags criss-cross the parking lot snapping in the breezy sunlight. A huge canvas sign stretches across the front of the new store, just blocks from our Evanston, Il, home, "Bienvenidos a Morelia Supermarket, Welcome to Morelia Supermarket." Specal offers are plastered across the large front windows; chicken breast, rice, tomatoes, cheese. I can hear the ranchera music blaring from inside before I get to the front door.

Mothers with babies and toddlers in tow speak in Spanish to each other and to the clerk at the customer service desk where we hand over our reusable bags and recieve a raffle ticket in exchange. They include me with smiles, in their greetings.

Where should I start? I can't pass up the bakery! It's right there at the entrance with the familiar stacks of trays and tongs, bins with fresh bolillos, sheets of pan dulce and my favorite cookies with the sprinkles on top. (What makes those cookies so irresistible?) I fill a tray even though I only need to buy few things. I can come again, I have to remind myself, but I don't put anything back.

I'm tempted by everything; the towering pyramids of fruits and vegetables, chayotes, jicamas, key limes; a dairy case full of panela and cotija cheeses; bag after bag of dried chiles---pasilla, ancho, guajillo, and cascabel; fresh fish and meat, arrachera, pollo, camarones.

I follow the aroma of food cooking to the back of the store. A small crowd has gathered here and I can see why. Its only 8:00 a.m., but what better time for crisp chicharrones, carne asada and spicy salsa? From the men behind the counter, there comes a rapid stream of Spanish as they fill orders from the steaming pans of tamales and rice. They ladle spicy pork stew onto Styrofoam plates, pass heaping cloth-covered baskets of warm tortillas into waiting hands.

Browsing idly through the aisles my shopping list forgotten, my schedule suspended, I am immersed in the sounds I've missed all summer. I feel the familiar tug of my Mexican home where time seems endless, where even grocery shopping takes the whole day and that's just fine.

My colorful Mexican shopping bags are retrieved and filled as I tell the young woman how happy I am that this wonderful store has opened. She smiles and shows me the writing on the market's plastic rocery bags, "Autenticamente Mexico, Authentically Mexico," it says. And it is.

"...but is it safe?"

At our annual condominium association cocktail party I meet a lot of people for the first time, and I have the same conversation with each of them. When I say I live in Mexico during the winter, the response is, “How interesting! We go to Florida. You said ‘Mexico,’ right?
Not New Mexico? Is it safe?”

I am asked that question often, and I know what my new acquaintances are thinking: swine flu, kidnappings and drug cartel shootouts. Mexico’s image is tarnished. I resist the urge to give a speech defending my second homeland, and respond with my short answer: “I feel safe. I avoid border towns right now because of drug-related violence. Last spring the swine flu risk was exaggerated. And I don’t drive at night in Mexico—livestock roam the road and drunk driving is not unusual. I stay out of harm’s way.”

If the person is interested, I say more about the safety question. “When I walk down the street in San Pancho, I recognize almost everyone. I never worry about purse snatchings or wayward bullets from teenage gunplay. I don’t need to avoid dangerous neighborhoods, because there are none. San Pancho feels safer to me than the city of New Haven.”

Yes, San Pancho is growing and changing, but the way the Mexicans describe it still applies: “Tranquilo.” Calm.

Laughs at the Dentist's Office

Many Bay of Banderas gringos go to a dentist in Vallarta who runs a sophisticated practice. Gleaming treatment rooms, state-of-the-art gear, a slew of hygienists in matching white lab coats---it’s what we know and feel comfortable with. But still, after one visit there, I returned to my long-time Bucerias dentist, Adrian, and his one-room, one-dental chair office.

Adrian charges less, does a decent job, and most important, gives me terrific material for stories around the dinner table. Like the time he cleaned my teeth (he can’t afford a hygienist) while simultaneously eating a “torta Cubana” that his latest assistant had rushed in to him. He was forced to schedule back-to-back appointments with no time for lunch, he explained, now that his divorce had left him broke. “Sali de Guatemala y entre a Guatepeor/ I went from bad to worse,” he said, and we all laughed.

Or the time another patient, a Canadian who is also a personal friend of Adrian’s, pulled up a chair a few feet away from me while Adrian worked on one of my molars. He smoked a couple of cigarettes and told us all about the nine-foot sailfish he’d caught and released the day before.

Adrian’s assistants are good story material, too. They come and go, each one prettier and younger than the last. No lab coats hide the curves of these beauties; low-cut clinging tops and tight jeans are the uniform here. They banter with Adrian and gossip about the patients; he bosses them around affectionately, calling them “dearest,” “my love,” and “heart of my heart.”

In my favorite story, Adrian was preparing to bond one of my top front teeth. The light in the office was too dim to do a good color match, so he suggested we step outside into the sunlight. Passers-by walked around us on the narrow sidewalk as I positioned a hand mirror in front of my open mouth, Adrian held up color strips next to my teeth, and we decided on the best shade.

For the record, two years later, my persnickety dentist in California commented on the nice bonding job. “And the color is perfect,” he said.

Revolution!

Revolution!

President Porfirio Diaz acknowledges the crowd, an imperious wave, his white-gloved hand tickles the air. His consort clutches the crook of his arm, eyes shy behind a pleated fan. Handsome in a shiny black suit, this Diaz is a picture of dignity. All three feet of him. The presidential couple leads the parade, steps proudly to music revved high for the occasion.

Pancho Villa, dressed in homespun and sombrero, a cartridge belt crisscrossing his pint-sized chest, scampers forward. Another Pancho Villa follows suit, and another and another. A half-dozen Emiliano Zapatas, mustachios painted across upper lips, join the moving tableau. Rifles, bayonets, other cardboard weaponry cut the air.

Tiny senoritas, colorful petticoats aswirl, pirouette in place, two-steps forward, two-steps back, repeat. Dainty braids laced with ribbons, cheeks and lips rosy with mama’s makeup. Some wear woven rebozos, baby dolls tucked inside.

Gymnasts form pyramids, elicit crowd approval; older women, royal crowns atop graying heads, kiss the air from their pick-up truck plastic chair perches; a color guard from San Pancho’s secondary school reflects the honor of the occasion.

Everywhere flags. Gripped in pudgy fists, draped from balconies, pasted in windows. Cars, trucks, their antennas aflutter in the red, white, and green, inch forward behind this grand procession.

Revolution Day! Tercer Mundo, San Pancho’s main street from the highway to the beach, packed with people. Tourists, expats charmed with local color; Mexican parents, proud, watchful eyes on young sons and daughters. Weeks of practice, preparation come to fruition. It’s November 20, the day Mexico celebrates the 1911 uprising against its longtime dictator, Porfirio Diaz. Two million lives lost during the country’s famous revolt against authority, but constitutional rights gained. Villa and Zapata proclaimed folk heroes. Diaz banished, any good he accomplished during his 35-year rule forgotten.

Except today. November 20 in San Pancho, Nayarait, and throughout Mexico, Diaz is resurrected, dusted off, given some due along with other larger-than-life characters who march down Main Street.

Finding a cocucha

Skip and I are on the hunt for a cocucha, a clay pot handmade only in the remote village of Cocucho, Michoacán. We are driving down a country road toward Cocucho, closing in, when a fallen electrical pole blocks the route. “Another way to Cocucho?” we ask a group of school boys. They point toward a dirt track through a cornfield. “Feo,” they tell us. Ugly, nasty, awful. “No turning back now,” we agree. “Let’s do it.” After 15 minutes of bouncing through the muddy field, not a house in sight, we wonder, “Is this dangerous? Are we crazy?”

We arrive in Cocucho unscathed and take a break on a bench in the town plaza. A small indigenous woman, barefoot, approaches, introduces herself as Lupe, and asks if we are looking for cocuchas. She can guide us to Juana’s home, where we will find many pots.

Juana Alonzo Hernandez lives in a one-room house, so unfinished that in the U.S. we would call it a hut: a dirt floor, walls of raw wood, no furniture except for a table, two chairs and a bed. Juana is wrinkly, toothless, five feet tall at most, with long gray hair wound around her head. Like Lupe, she is barefoot and wears a voluminous, brightly colored skirt, an embroidered blouse, and a shawl. Juana and Lupe talk with each other in Purépecha, the language of the indigenous people in that area, but they speak Spanish with us. We explain that we are from the U.S, and that we live in Nayarit during the winter. We are looking for a cocucha about four-feet tall to fill a big empty space at the bottom of our stairwell.

Before we get down to business, Juana wants to talk about the U.S. Are we familiar with Seattle? Her son moved there three years ago for a landscaping job. She shows us a photo of a smiling young man. “He used to send money,” Juana says, “but I haven’t heard from him in a long time. Do you know how much an airline ticket costs? Do you think I could get a passport?” We admire the photo and respond as best we can.

Juana shows us the pots in her yard and explains how she forms them by hand from Cocucho clay. She uses no wheels or molds in the pot-building process. The pots are fired in a charcoal blaze on the ground, not in a kiln. We select a tall, tapered cocucha with fire marks on its mottled surface. It will be perfect in our empty space and it costs less than $100. Despite our protests, Juana and Lupe insist on carrying the giant cocucha to our car in slings improvised from their shawls. They pack it securely in the hatch. We drive back to San Pancho cautiously, protecting our prize from speed bumps and sudden stops.

Victory at Sea

I forgot how dramatic the summer storms can be. "It’s like watching ‘Victory at Sea’," Marsh once said, as we sat on our front porch, mesmerized by the performance. Bolts of lightning attacked the distant horizon and hurtled through the sky over the Pacific. Thunder bombarded our ears and clapped so explosively we jumped in our chairs. As I witnessed the same spectacle last night I thought, Snow birds really don't know what they're missing.

Admittedly, the heat is tough to contend with. I don’t like it either, and will leave again in a few weeks. But it’s worth enduring in order to experience the tropics at their most intense. The greenest of green vegetation, washed clean by the torrential rains, shimmers and steams under a glaring sun. The jungle reclaims itself, shoots tree limbs over roads to form cooling canopies, overwhelms untended land with towering new growth. Even the ocean ratchets up, its color changing to vivid turquoises and emerald greens.

Faced with such intensity, mere mortals are forced to relax and give in. We move more slowly, take more naps, spend more time at home, as we adapt to the natural world that now has the upper hand.

I lived here year-round my first seven years in Nayarit. We who savored the storms, coped with the humidity, and knew how to slow life down to a crawl, thought of ourselves as the only true expats. “Welcome back,” we said smugly to returnees every fall, hoping they would pick up on the superiority we felt. My come-uppance is the slip in social status that I feel now, when locals say "welcome back" to me.

Par for the Course

Ah, the allure of lush green fairways and a gently rolling landscape. Even the sand traps and water hazards beckon. Flags fluttering in the warm breeze entice you to holes you’ll never play. Each day, you peer longingly through the locked gate at the golf course; silent, pristine, empty.

From the beginning it seemed too good to be true. News of a golf course being developed right around the corner from our house sent my husband Bill, an avid golfer, into wild anticipation. How big a golf course? How much would it cost to play? Would it be a public course or could he buy a membership? He planned his daily golf game, relished the thought of how his golf buddies would envy his unlimited access.

As construction began, not the cacophonous parade of earth moving equipment past our house, nor the chorus of water-conservationists crying “foul,” could dampen Bill’s enthusiasm. Watching the course take shape became an obsession. His clubs polished, Bill was ready for opening day.

And then word got out.

There it was, on the San Pancho Message Board. The golf course was going to be “private,” for use only by its owner, his family and friends. Was it a joke? No, it wasn’t. But it was true.

Still, no parade of carts appeared, no golfers or caddies, just the staff who faithfully maintained the grounds; planting, pruning, mowing.

“If he’s going to have his own golf course, why doesn’t he play?” Bill muttered as we drove past. “Wouldn’t a little putting green in his backyard have been enough?”

Then, he packed up his clubs and went back to the little nine hole course near La Penita.

Recycling in San Pancho

If you don’t have a lot of money, you have to make do with what’s at hand, so commonplace materials are used for multiple purposes in San Pancho. A big olive oil tin, cut down and with a stick for a handle, becomes a dustpan. Salt rubbed into a copper pot with a sliced lime does a nice job as a metal polish. If our painter needs a funnel, he inverts a plastic bottle and cuts off the bottom. The carpenter seals and stains wood with his old motor oil. These ingenious measures are good for San Pancho’s environment, but that is incidental. The motivation is to save a few pesos.

In addition to being economical, recycling can fulfill an artistic impulse. Guys who work in garages, for example, seem to be inspired by discarded car parts, though they probably aren’t thinking “reduce, reuse, recycle.” A man-sized Pink Panther sculpture constructed from mufflers and tailpipes stands at the entrance to a nearby mechanic’s shop. I’ve seen carburetors, bolts and oil filters transformed into sculptures of horses and female torsos.

A formal recycling program was started recently in San Pancho, and we needed it. EntreAmigos (entreamigos.org.mx), a non-profit that does good works in the village, and Alianza Jaguar, a conservation program, placed recycling canisters on the main street and set up a drop-off center for glass, aluminum and plastic. Then entreAmigos spearheaded the construction of Recicla Parque, a playground built entirely of plastic bottles, shopping carts, tires, fishing nets, drainage pipes and other debris. They operate Trabajarte, a program so women so can make and sell craft items out of recycled materials.

Now we are officially doing something “green” in San Pancho, but recycling is not a new idea here. A quote I like from Teddy Roosevelt -- “Do what you can with what you have where you are” -- comes to mind when I see people making good use of stuff that could have ended up in a landfill.

Goats Redux

Life on our street teems like a telenovela, those popular soap operas to which many Mexicans are devoted. Birth, death, marriage, divorce, a couple of near-murders, the odd theft, we’ve seen it all. Layers of raucous laughter stratify the street, and song and greetings and the banter of children at play. A net of exuberance draws together family and friends and friends of friends.

We were happy spectators. Until the day the goats moved in.

The bawling drew me, high pitch, strung out, anxious. I looked through the cyclone fence that separates our back yard from our nearest neighbor. Two small goats bleating like newborns, twin noses pressed against chicken wire walls of a lean-to shed. Apparently unhappy with accommodations, the goats complained throughout that first day, night, first week, second week.

Then silence so loud I went to investigate. The shed was empty. Out on the street I saw my neighbor try to fold and stuff the goats into the back of her van. I asked where they were going. With a laugh she said, "Comer (to eat)," her fingers tapping her lips. While I hoped she meant the goats were going to visit a more fertile grazing ground, in my gut I knew they were going to grace a dinner table. Gone to their gustatory reward.

Then one day two new arrivals, trailing yellow leashes, walked through our open gate, clip-clopped down the stairs, circled the tile ledge surrounding the Jacuzzi pool, nosed up to me, brown eyes soft, curious. My husband and I each grabbed a leash and dragged the goats next door.

"Hola," we called. Twice, three times. No one responded. "Let’s just put them in their pen." As we made our way around the side of the house we passed an open air toilet, a pile of plastic kitchen ware worse for wear, mounds of debris, detritus, unidentifiable.

The goats tugged on their leashes, apparently anxious to reach the lop-sided lean-to at the back of the property. We let them go.

It was a shock to see how our neighbors lived. Adults, children, grandchildren always clean, neatly dressed, but their home was a hovel. A junk yard hovel from which we daily hear bursts of laughter, song, good-natured teasing. Hard contrast with the way we live: bookshelves dusted, picture frames T-square straight.

What are we missing here?

The Rains Come

My husband and I came up to our mountain house at the beginning of June. Nearly all our San Pancho friends had left for their northern homes, and for excellent reason—it was way too hot on the coast. The ones who stayed were all found, upon close questioning, to have air-conditioned bedrooms. We do not, given that our bedroom only has one and a half walls. The day came when life was no fun at all and desultory plans to move up to the mountains shifted to let’s-get-out-of-here mode.

But when we arrived it was hot up here, too. A mile of altitude, intense sun, steep cobbled streets, and as yet no rain—a walk to the store and we dragged in overheated. However, our house was dim and cool and the nights required a quilt. It had been no mistake to make the move.

The garden was glorious. Rose, gardenia, agapanthus, plumbago, hydrangea, geranium, bougainvillea, impatiens, begonia, calla lily, zinnia, hibiscus, nasturtium, trumpet vine, and more, whose names I don’t know, were all blooming. Especially grand were the datura trees, as I call them, with their pendant flutes of exquisite fragrance. One is twenty feet high and greeted us with a good 300 blooms.

This beauty is accomplished by having a gardner, hose in hand, all winter. We are symbiots with our mozo Marcelino—our garden survives; his daughter gets a quinceañiera, the traditional fifteenth birthday celebration for those girls whose parents can afford it.

The rains arrived right on schedule and none too soon as I had begun thinking about those stories from India where people go crazy waiting for the monsoon and start hacking up their neighbors. Not Marcelino, of course. One night, mid June, there was spectacular downpour and it has rained every day since. The output ranges from thunder and lightning storms to the gentlest mist. The eaves and drainage channels may run floods of water or one’s hair may wear no more than a net of droplets after half an hour outside. There may be a sprinkle around five in the afternoon, or it may rain for several days running.

The heated ocean evaporates, the saturated air rolls in over land and, cooling, condenses into rain. Weather 101. San Sebastian sits in an amphitheater of mountains with the ocean as stage, and we don’t miss a drop. The rains come and a few hours later the miracles begin. Resurrection ferns emerge from every cranny of the stone walls. Moss goes from russet brown to electric green. Mountains erupt with purple flowering vines atop fresh-leaved trees. Tiny white and yellow orchids appear on branches. Pink crocus-like tempranillos cover hillsides. Orchid cacti sprout fleshy blooms from the nodes of their thick leaves. And the weather is perfectly cool.

Now the rains are doing the job of watering the garden, but they are not an unmixed blessing. Bougainvillea decide to take a blooming break, geraniums have to be put under cover. Double hibiscus fill with water and hang upside down, as do the grander floribundas. Zinnias are beaten over and have to grow J-shaped stalks to reach their preferred orientation. And some plants just rot and die no matter what you do.

The rains are a mixed blessing for the people, too. In our first year we lost access to the contents of our drawers when the wood swelled. Now we know to keep drawers slightly open but not how to keep mold from dusting leather chairs, cloth-bound books, carpets, canvas of paintings and wooden furniture. When the clouds descend to the level of the village, I must quickly close doors and windows so the white billows don’t roll inside and soak the beds and sofas. A frequent topic of conversation, in the warm candlelight of an evening, is how to deal with the incessant electrical outages. We never know when landslides will trap us up here for hours or even days.

But picture this: Our house, built in imitation of the local rustic colonial style with tile roof and approved slopes, does not leak. We curl up under our covers and couldn’t care less if it pours all night.

The Governor Comes To Town

On the steps of the hospital, the nurses stand in two straight lines; their caps starched white, uniforms pressed, barely moving in the breeze. The VIPS assemble near the newly hung banner that reads “Inauguracion Ampliacion de Hospital General de San Francisco.” Freshly painted terra-cotta walls shine in the sunlight, neatly pruned flowers and plants border the walkways; not one wayward piece of litter is in sight. All is ready for Ney Gonzales, Governor of the state of Nayarit to dedicate the newly renovated hospital.

Security is in place. Earlier, police road blocks kept the area around the hospital cordoned off. Now an assortment of law enforcement vehicles and personnel maintain a watchful presence; the scratchy static of their radios adds background drama. Photographers, outfitted with large, serious cameras, multiple lights and bags stake out their places along the roadway. I see familiar faces; many of my neighbors are here and I recognize others from the restaurants and shops in town. We wave at each other across the growing surge of onlookers.

At the sound of the approaching helicopters, the crowd hums with excitement. The governor and his entourage are approaching; all smiles, they shake hands, pose for photos and pat the babies. Applause! Thin and more slightly built than the associates who accompany him, the governor is all energy, keeping a rapid pace and offering a constant stream of greetings and comments. He commands full attention. The crowd responds with enthusiasm and respect.

The speeches begin. There are introductions and acknowledgements. Everyone agrees that this is an important day, a very special event, for San Pancho and the State of Nayarit. The governor speaks.

We are all very fortunate, he says, to have such a fine hospital in San Pancho. He wants the families of Nayarit to have access to the best possible health care. But, he reminds us, that good health is an individual responsibility; that we have an obligation to ourselves and our children. He talks about diet and exercise, the dangers of smoking and alcohol, drugs. He reminds us that mental health is important, too, and he talks about the dangers of depression. His tone is serious, thoughtful.

Is this just politician talk? I look around at the crowd who are listening intently, many nodding in agreement. No, I decide. His message has hit its mark.

Ana Amid the Agaves

Ana Ruiz, my housekeeper and property manager, worked for five years in the agave fields of tequila producer Jose Cuervo. Along with 25 other workers from her village, El Conde, an hour away from Guadalajara, she was picked up at 5:30 AM, Monday through Saturday, and packed into the back of a truck.

“We were dropped off at 6 AM and picked up at 5 PM,” Ana said.. “All of us were paid 150 pesos ($15) per day. I worked for Jose Cuervo from 1999 to 2004 and never got a raise. ” Sauza, owner of adjoining fields and the only other big local employer, paid its workers the same, she said. Like most of the others, she felt she had no choice but to stay. “I was 28 years old, my husband left me the year before, and I had two children to raise,” she said.

Every day, 5’2”Ana strapped on a 20-liter tank of chemicals and walked the rows of agaves, fumigating and fertilizing the plants. “Jose Cuervo’s rows look straight and tidy,” she said. “Not like the Sauza fields, so messy with weeds. That's because they don't use chemicals. And Jose Cuervo now uses a small plane for spraying. Less work for the field hands, but people worry about how much more they inhale.”(Note to self: Switch to Sauza brand tequila.)

During those years, Ana thought about cleaning houses in Phoenix. A friend had a crew and a van, and Ana had her standing offer of a job. But she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her kids in El Conde.“I wanted to do better by them, though,” she said. “ I dropped out of school at 15 and gave birth to Karina at 16, to Enrique at 18. It’s been hard physical work for me ever since. I want so much more for the two of them. "

So Ana left her kids with her parents in El Conde and moved to San Pancho, where her in-laws lived and she heard there was work. After a stint as a housekeeper at the local hotel, she found me by day and a restaurant by night. She washed dishes the first year at Café del Mar. The second, she washed dishes and trained as a sous-chef. The third, she prepared salads and vegetables at sister restaurant Mar Plata. And the fourth, 2009, she returned to Café del Mar, this time as head chef.

“I learned the menu fairly quickly,” Ana said. “Now I’m starting to innovate, which I really like a lot.” She feels proud of herself. “My kids say they feel proud of me, too,” she admitted.

I imagine my days as Ana’s boss are numbered---surely she won’t need a second job much longer. And oh how I’ll miss her. Nice, though, to have been part of this local-girl-makes-good story.

Azulejos

I like the Spanish word for decorative tiles: azulejos. Could it be a fusion of azul and lejos, Spanish for “blue” and “far”? Blue far. The words evoke exotic places, like the Mediterranean or the Blue Mosque.

Azulejos are everywhere in Casa Skip y Nancy, our San Pancho house. Vibrant blue tiles on kitchen counters; intricate patterns of turquoise and navy on stair risers; geometric designs of blue and gold on the patio steps; a border of lily tiles around a bathroom mirror.

The house is one-of-a-kind and made of indigenous materials. Walls are stuccoed block, built by masons from the village and painted pink. A San Pancho carpenter crafted the windows and doors from parota, a local hardwood. And the decorative tiles, made of Nayarit clay, were hand-finished in Puerto Vallarta according to the traditional Talavera process. I revel in the individuality of Casa Skip y Nancy, and I appreciate its connection to its place.

Our Connecticut condo, where we spend the spring and summer, is pleasant enough and meets our needs. But it is identical to 149 other units in our condo complex. All the materials, including the tiles, look like they came from Home Depot. Exterior walls are stucco veneer embellished with fake half-timbers. Each unit is painted the same beige, per condo regulations. An attempt to look Tudor, I guess, but what’s Tudor got to do with southern Connecticut?

Two homes, two lives

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not complaining. But this teeter-totter life of mine takes its toll. I’m here when I’m not there. When I’m there I’m worried about here. I am fully aware how fortunate I am to own homes in two countries, to reap reward of two cultures, to enjoy friends in two disparate parts of the world. But this lifestyle can be strenuous.

Summers in the north are a whirligig of appointments and errands, dates with family, friends, and neighbors, sundry obligations. I dash in and out of a house that nips at my heels. Feeling her age, 63 years old, she demands big-time restoration. Payback for the view.

Perched eighty-five feet above a finger of Puget Sound, her bank of windows reflects a wide shimmer of blue gray water and water activity. Hand-hewn stairs crafted by my husband descend to a beach tousled with butter clam and oyster shells. A heron prances onto the dock, eagles swoop low, sea lions frolic, actually frolic, a few feet off shore. A family of Canada geese makes its rounds: straddle the pebbles and shells, dip in the frigid water, follow-the-leader swim. It’s rare I take time to watch them. Like the White Rabbit of Alice in Wonderland I am perennially late. Entrenched in a northern mentality.

Late October turns wet and gray. Time to button up and head south. These northern bones resist the move. I am homesick before we cross the Columbia River into Oregon. I worry about the house and the people left behind. Long days on the road, my husband, my cat good companions during the week-plus we take to reach the border.

A day or so north of San Pancho my wooly head clears. Anticipation builds to see my tiny house and blowsy garden. I open the gate with trepidation, nervous about what might have taken root during summer. The house smells of neglect: dust, must, trails of detritus from critters camped inside. I set to work: cupboards must be emptied, contents re-washed, floors swept and mopped. All is well, even when it’s not.

Casa Tango is a home without conveniences. I do not have a dishwasher or clothes dryer. I do not have television, telephone, or internet. Sometimes I do without water and electricity. Ah, but the joy of being here. I shrug off my northern coat, northern expectations. Here I give myself permission to sit in a garden filled with foliage that froths over low concrete walls painted orange, purple, blue, green; to watch an iguana climb the neighbor’s brick wall, follow a butterfly, blink and miss the hummingbird.

In spite of the challenge inherent with living in a culture foreign to one’s own, in spite of the inconveniences, I feel more peaceful here than in my home up north. Fewer obligations. Lower expectations.

Mexico lets me breathe.

It's Different Now

It was easier for me to live in Mexico when George Bush was president. Especially after he won a second term. Who WERE these fellow citizens of mine that elected and re-elected this unworthy stooge? Who would want to live among them?

I kidded with my friend from Montreal. “You could sell fake Canadian passport covers and make a killing.” Somebody else did just that. I found them online. Only half-joking, I bought a few for myself and my kids, along with maple leaf stickers to slap on our bags.

Now it’s different. Granted, the past three years have been momentous for me. I lost a dear husband, published a first book, and found a whole new community of friends in California, in large part because I spend so much time there. But a new administration has made life different for me, too. To paraphrase Michelle Obama, I feel proud of my country again, for the first time in the new millennium. We saw the wisdom in her husband, came out in droves for him, and swept him into office on a wave of passion and pride. Our votes counted(and were counted!). Activism paid off. The world press loves us again.

And, like so many other tired feminists and community organizers, I have become energized. Tonight I’m off to a march in support of same-sex marriage. Tomorrow night to a meeting of the Unitarian social action committee. Thursday night, homework tutoring at the homeless shelter. It feels good to be back, to be involved again where it feels appropriate to me, within my own culture.

Do I want to live most of the year in Mexico anymore, if it means giving this up? After twelve years in the “Riviera Nayarit,” am I ready for a change?

Haggling

Hoping to sound more emphatic the second time, I repeat what I just said to the beach vendor: “No, Señor, I don’t want to buy silver jewelry today. Thank you.”

“But, Señora, these earrings are from Taxco, best quality, nine-two-five, you see?” He dangles a pair of shiny silver hoops close to my face.

I take them in my hand and inspect for the tiny .925 engraving that signifies a piece is almost pure silver. Big mistake. I have shown interest.

“Señora, this is my last sale of the day. I’ll give you two-for-one. Two pairs, $500 pesos. You won’t find a better price.”

Minutes later I own two new pairs of silver hoop earrings. Don’t know if I got a good deal or not. But I caved. Again.

I’ve always been a pushover for roving beach vendors. If you sit in one of San Pancho’s beachfront restaurants, they will find you. Most often they are young men dressed in white, toting laptop-sized cases full of silver jewelry.

Here are some suggestions for dealing with vendors from a person who owns lots of silver jewelry, tacky wood carvings, acrylic shawls and goofy sun hats:

• If you really have no interest, don’t make eye contact. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t inspect the merchandise. Just say, “No, gracias,” and go back to your book or conversation.


• Start a transaction by asking, “What is your best price?” and have in mind an amount you’re willing to pay. You must be able to think rapidly in pesos and to say peso amounts in Spanish without hesitating. Practice this at home.


• Expect to settle at 50-60% of the vendor’s opening price. He won’t sell the piece at a loss, but he does have to make a living. Do not allow thoughts like “He’s probably got kids who need food and school clothes” to enter your head.


• Once the vendor agrees to your price, you are obliged by haggling tradition to accept the deal. To walk away or try to go another round would be bad form.
  

If you know you’re not good at haggling, you might ask a companion with the necessary skills to handle the transaction. My husband, who thinks negotiating with used car salesmen is great sport, is an expert, so I ask him to be the closer. Or just don’t haggle. Go to one of San Pancho’s shops and pay what it says on the price tag.

The Reluctant Farmer

This is a story about the chicken and the eggs. The setting is a small patch of syngonium, philodendron, and fern by my entry door. One day last February during a routine weed-and-water session I discovered an egg.

Smaller than supermarket size, it was unblemished, light tan, and warm in my hand. I assumed it was laid by one of the neighbor’s chickens, although none were in sight. Was it progeny? Or was it the first ingredient in huevos rancheros. I turned it about in my palm, could not tell the difference. It was my first egg in the wild.

"You won’t believe this," I said to my husband, Win. "I found an egg in the garden."

"Just one?" Win raked aside foliage. "Maybe there are more."

No additional eggs that day but during the next three we found a single egg, same time, same place.

Perplexed, we pulled a stakeout. Day five we met the mom. She was a frumpy thing, flustered to find us hovering about but with enough aplomb to flounce and high-step around us to hop into the plants. We watched her jiggle her nether-side of cinnamon-colored feathers into the damp earth, settle in, head and neck tucked low. Hard black eyes, crenellated headdress neon red half submerged atop the fluff.

"Must belong to the neighbors," said Win, referring to the dozen or so chickens that free-range between our two properties. "Wonder why she left."

I don’t know what precipitated the break in community relations but by the second week we knew this chicken had run away from home. Apparently comfortable in her new digs she settled in for what would become a daily routine.

Each morning at 9:20 a.m., give or take, she leaves her nest, emits a three-note squawk, and strolls with a certain dignity down the brick stairs to the backyard. She flaps atop the cyclone fence separating the properties and retreats within the neighbor’s lean-to shed. She returns to us in about 30 minutes to hunker down until the next morning.

February passes, then March. April we button up our house for summer departure. Throughout the bustle of leave taking our chicken continues to rule her roost. We anticipate her welcome home squawk upon our return in the fall.

Tyson did not produce more than the four eggs we found her first week in residence. We did put those eggs to good use.

Four Egg Frittata
Whisk eggs, add seasonings, such as basil, marjoram, oregano, thyme. Heat tablespoon of butter or olive oil in small skillet. Tilt eggs into skillet. Layer atop eggs half cup thinly sliced onions and zucchini. Top with grated parmesan cheese. Once eggs are set put skillet on high oven rack. Broil about one minute, until frittata is puffed and lightly browned. Slide onto plate. Serves one as meal or two as appetizer.

On Not Going Back

My fellow blog writers are dropping like flies. Two have gone back to the United States and the ones who are left have departure dates not far off. Their eyes are already focused far to the north. It’s the same for all the foreign community. There is a boiling down to just the year-round residents— those who can face being further boiled in the summer to come. We are among the ones who no longer go back.

Every year another person or couple joins the ranks of the year-round. The ties to Back There have been loosening. For several years membership on all those committees has been allowed to go into months of suspension but eventually they don’t want you any more and you don’t mind. The war will be stopped, the watershed saved, and strategies for world peace developed by others. Friends wonder how important they are to you. Events and crises have gone on fine without your participation. You can hardly bear to face the neglected northern home, the opportunity for spring planting passed. There remains the greatest draw—grandchildren, but there is a perfectly functioning international airport. If your children weren’t nearby, one airport is as good as another.

For us, time in Mexico had come to be the better part of the year and time spent here had gone from two weeks, to three months and on to six. The attachment to new friends had grown. New community interests had come along too but with a tiny fraction of the meetings. We eventually had broadband and NPR. Our new home was lovely and open and filled with soft breezes. The flowers were so easy to grow. More and more ties to Back There were either cut or stretched to reach into the tropics.

Now I admit that my husband and I will also leave San Pancho for the summer and fall. We will go two hours away to our cool mountain home in San Sebastian. Turns out we don’t want to be boiled either. Three other foreign resident San Pancho couples have adopted the same plan and perhaps more will follow. Over time, commitment to the new pueblo has grown with friendships becoming established and joint projects started. When we are on the coast we often think of the mountain town, and vice versa. We seem to have chosen the same bind, but with the not-insignificant difference of a two hour drive rather than four days or more. We can easily check in. No meetings there either, though we did recently join a protest to save an ancient tree. Here we go again.

Leaving for the season

Leaving San Pancho to spend the spring and summer in Connecticut isn’t easy. We rent the house when we are not there, and Casa Skip y Nancy needs to be ship-shape. The countdown begins weeks before my early April departure. Each day I update lengthy to-do lists. Conversations with Skip begin, “Did you remember to (clean the grill, get extra keys…)?”

Our property manager and housekeeper, both capable people, take care of the house in our absence. Nevertheless, I try to anticipate any problem that could arise. A notebook I leave for renters contains exhaustive details: disposal clogged? Here’s where to find the Allen wrench. Dryer not working? Call Lorenzo-the-dryer-guy in Sayulita. I imagine renters thinking as they read the notebook, “An obsessive person wrote this.”

But the hardest part of leaving is saying goodbye to people I care about. I’ll miss my walking buddies, my writers’ group, friends who pop in unannounced. Being part of a community seems effortless in San Pancho. On a one-block walk to the store, I might run into three people who stop for a chat. I seldom have casual, spontaneous encounters in West Haven. Many of my friends are still working, and time with them is planned in advance.

Still, I yearn for my Connecticut life. I’ve got to see my children and grandchildren; if I don’t get back there, too much of their lives will pass me by. The recitals and birthday parties, Middlebrook Elementary’s spring fair, walks in the park with my new grandson – I love all that grandma stuff.

So I pack up and leave San Pancho. When I’m in one place, I miss someone who’s in the other place. And that's not a bad problem to have.

The Lonely Librarian

The small two-story building near the beach on San Pancho’s main street, Tercer Mundo, was home to entreamigos for three years. Children gathered out front for art projects at tables under the grand mango tree in the center of the street. Traffic slowed to creep around it. Massive branches provided shade.

A small, hand-lettered sign led to the “Biblioteca, Library.” A narrow hallway with brightly painted murals. Uneven concrete stairs. Children’s voices. In the largest room, shelves filled with books in Spanish lined the walls; large, colorful picture books beckoned eager readers. A long bench with chairs provided desks for studying and homework help, and amidst tangled wires, computer stations brought the world of the internet.

The dimly lit smallest room in the library held the English collection for adults and children. Here books overflowed the shelves and leaned haphazardly at odd angles, stacked and propped; keeping order, my nemesis. As the volunteer librarian, I was uncompromising; fiction separate from non-fiction, non-fiction organized by topic. I vowed that someday the Dewey Decimal system would prevail.

But entreamigos’ lease had expired, and we had to move. We filled boxes and boxes with books. Carefully, at first, labeling “Libros, espanol, ninos, books, Spanish, children.” Then later, rushed, we simply wrote “libros.” We rolled up the colorful posters, gathered the toys, and took down the shelves.

The small, hand-lettered sign above the door now reads “Se renta, for rent.” The mango tree is gone, a casualty of the newly repaved Tercer Mundo. Entreamigos is a strong and committed organization, however, whose work in San Pancho will continue. We will have a new home in one of the old warehouses in town. In time there will be a new library, and I will be in it, trying to keep order once again.

http://www.entreamigos.org/

Love at First Sight

First-timers to San Pancho are among my favorite house guests, and two more came in the other day. From the minute we turned into town on Avenida Tercer Mundo, they were smitten. It’s those first sights as we head toward the beach for a quick look, sights that make my daughter-the-regular shout, “And action!”

There’s the cowboy on horseback, broad-brimmed sombrero angled low on his brow. The weathered old woman in the ever-present apron, standing erect behind a small wooden table where she sells her bread pudding. A pickup, its bed loaded with laughing kids, bouncing them like beach balls each time it passes over a speed bump.

As happens often enough, these latest newcomers arrived just when I needed them. Bouts with mildew, warped woodwork, and water shortages necessitating cold “Navy showers” were wearing me down. “The re-entry blues,” I called it, coming home to issues after months out of the country. I needed the shot in the arm of people raving about San Pancho and the view from my porch. Who scoffed at my “happy problems” and reinforced my choice of this place on the planet with their sighs of approval as they stared out to sea.

Bird Watching

From time to time a hush comes over the garden. My neighbors’ music players have simultaneously fallen silent. No trucks or busses are using engine brakes on the highway. The children are not playing soccer in the street. Shrimp trucks with loudspeakers are elsewhere. In this preternatural silence the anis fly into the garden. It is hard not to believe that they have some causal relationship to this lacuna in the noisy bustle of San Pancho—as though their unrelieved blackness is connected not only to absence of light, but sound as well.

The Grooved-Billed Ani is a cuckoo-related bird. In side view, nearly half the head is given over to a great, blunt beak. Yes, birds are dinosaurs, I think when I see that profile. Anis lay their eggs, not like cuckoos, in another species’ nest, but in a communal nest of four or five pairs. Their extended family of eight or ten glides in on wings silent as owl’s, and enters the deepest foliage where their blackness is hardly distinguishable from the shadows. There is only the slightest rustle and tremor in the leaves as they move through. The anis make no more sound than the occasional brushing feather. Insects and lizards are not forewarned.

The anis use my garden as their family table. I like intact leaves and healthy color, so our interests coincide. They eat the stink bugs which can suck the life out of hibiscus. It is so quiet I can hear the tiny crunch as the bugs are crushed and I get a whiff of their unmistakable odor. I hold still so the birds will be undisturbed. Even the breeze is careful. Too soon, in twos and threes, they glide silently away.