The Candelaria Party

Chely, at the party

This year I gave a party to celebrate Candelaria, which falls on February 2. I had no idea of the religious or secular meaning of the day, and I’d never made a tamale, the essential menu item at Candelaria parties.

I said I’d host the party because I found the baby Jesus figurine in my piece of Rosca de Reyes, the special sweet bread served at my friend Lynn’s Three Kings’ Day party. According to Mexican tradition, the person who finds the plastic baby is supposed to invite all the same guests for Candelaria. I wanted to be a good sport; it was a way to learn about a Mexican tradition; and Lynn and Chely, one of Lynn’s Mexican guests, said they’d help.

The preparation of tamales sounded complex. Little loaves of masa, a corn-based dough, are formed around a filling of chicken, pork or cheese, tied up in a corn husk, and steamed in a deep pot. Not something I wanted to try for the first time when 20 people from Chely’s family were coming for dinner. I knew that Eva, proprietor of a popular taco stand, makes fine tamales, so I decided to contract out the job to her. Chely said she’d bring atole, a thick, warm drink that traditionally accompanies tamales, and refried beans. Lynn signed up for dessert.

The party food was four-star. Eva did a great job with tamales of chicken, pork rib, and strips of poblano chile with cheese. And even the people who don’t like atole liked Chely’s specialty, which was flavored with sweet, perfumey guayaba. Lynn’s made-from-scratch cupcakes were the perfect high-carb finish for the meal.

I did my best to make the Mexican family feel welcome. The women were interested in a house tour, and the kids occupied themselves with my grandchildren’s Lego blocks. I enjoyed myself, though it was hard for me to keep up with my guests’ fast-paced Spanish.

At the Three Kings’ Day party there had been a lot of talk about the kings’ names and which king brought which gift -- gold, frankincense and myrrh -- to the baby Jesus. But what was Candelaria about? No one mentioned it the night of my party. I checked on the web and found out that in English it’s called Candlemas, when Christ was presented at the temple 40 days after his birth, and when candles were blessed. It falls at the mid-point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox -- what I know as Groundhog Day. I’m glad I didn’t try to bridge the cultural gap by explaining Punxsutawney Phil to the Mexicans.

Hacienda San Angel

Hacienda San Angel

There’s no need to drive to Vallarta for a great meal, given the number of first class restaurants right in San Pancho. (Café del Mar will always be my favorite, if only for sentimental reasons. Picture my 14-month old granddaughter, Anna, asleep on its stone steps, head on chubby arms. And now the head chef is another Ana, my house administrator, the talented whirlwind Ana Ruiz.)

But an evening at Hacienda San Angel is so special, you owe it to yourself to make the trip. A B&B in the heart of Vallarta’s Old Town and one of Mexico’s premier boutique hotels, it also is open to the public for dinner (reservation required; http://www.haciendasanangel.com/).

My house guests and I dress up for the occasion, which begins with complimentary cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, served in the main salon. It’s a stunning space: a long wall of niches filled with colonial antiques; another wall covered with indigo and cream talavera tiles from ceiling to floor. Throw in strumming musicians, flowing fountains, and scores of flickering squat candles, and the effect is magical. “I half expect to see Zorro swing down on the chandelier,” my son-in-law Eddie said one visit.

We are free to roam around and take a look at the indoor and outdoor swimming pools, the tropical garden, and my personal favorite, the colonial-style back kitchen I love to revisit. Then it’s upstairs for dinner in one of the open-air living rooms or outdoor terraces, overlooking the town and the crowned dome of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. The food and service are excellent, the ambience sophisticated but comfortable, the price comparable to San Pancho’s better spots. Some of my friends and family enjoy San Angel so much, they now make dinner there an annual event.

Chuy and the Empanadas

Chuy, our housekeeper Irma’s son, wants a Play Station 3. We’ve known Chuy since he was five years old; he’s eleven now. When he was about eight he and my husband Bill used to go to the soccer field to “play golf.” Chuy doesn’t speak English, and Bill doesn’t speak Spanish, but off they’d go for hours, chatting as if they understood each other. They hit golf balls from one end of the field to the other and back again. Afterward they bought bags of treats to eat on the way home.

Chuy outgrew golf. He preferred surfing instead, surfing his favorite web sites on our computer, that is. He looked at hundreds of photos of the Lucha Libre (free wrestling) performers called luchadores. Famous for their high flying moves, colorful masks and costumes, luchadores are legendary characters celebrated by their fans all over Mexico. After serious consideration, Chuy selected three new performers to add to his collection. He showed us his choices naming each one, “Blue Panther, Atlantis, and Mistico.”

“Puedo imprimirlos? Can I print these?” he asked each time. We always said yes. He knew he could print three in full color each visit. Before going home, he put them neatly in his special folder.

But the time for childish things has passed. Chuy has a job. Determined to earn the money for the Play Station, he goes door to door in the pueblo selling empanadas, flaky sweet-filled turnovers, that Irma makes. Because we’re neighbors, our house is always his first stop.

Carrying a cloth-covered basket filled with fragrant warm-from-the-oven empanadas, Chuy appears at our door. He is ready for serious business.

“Cuestan cinco pesos, the cost is five pesos,” Chuy explains. “Estos son de vainilla, these are vanilla.”

He waits while I ponder how many to buy. I decide on ten, but then I always buy ten. Quietly counting to himself, Chuy selects each one and places it carefully on the plate for me. I, in turn, count out the correct amount of pesos for my purchase.

“Gracias, adios,” he says. No time for chit-chat now. Chuy has work to do.

Rules of the Road

I slip the knife under my pillow, inches from my fist, settle myself for sleep. It is a table knife, too dull to do much damage, but does provide a bit of bravado. I fantasize an intruder would retreat in alarm rather than reckon with this knife-wielding gringa.

I am spending the night in Los Mochis, Sinoloa, at Pemex station #4715, and I am not taking any chances.

My predilection for the pillow knife was born from reading too many swash-buckling tales of bandidos pouncing upon travelers, demanding their money and their jewels. Or else. Mexican lore, circa 1870.

Zoom back to the big picture. My husband and I overnight at Pemex stations during our drive from the Mexican border to our winter home in San Pancho because we travel by fifth wheel (truck and trailer). We do this because our cat, Tango, prefers a queen-size bed and queen-size litter box. Stuff her into an airline carrier? Not a chance. Tango rules.

It is relatively easy to find an overnight spot in the states. While Wal-Mart and other "big box" stores are no longer amenable to RVers, we have options: campgrounds, casinos, deserted office parks. Not so simple once we cross the border.

Years past we could plot a campground course from Nogales to Guymas, first night; Los Mochis, second night; Mazatlan third night; long day’s drive to San Pancho and home. The last couple of years, however, RV parks along the route have either deteriorated, closed, or sold out to make way for other endeavors. It is possible to overnight at autopista toll areas, restaurant parking lots, with permission, sometimes city streets. But security is an issue. RVs attract attention.

A chance remark led us to investigate a reasonable alternative: the ubiquitous Pemex stations along major and secondary highways. According to "Mexican Camping," a traveler’s guide by Mike and Terri Church, many of the larger stations offer showers, internet, banking, other amenities. They also offer plenty of space. Good for us and good for the dozens of trucks that may, on any given night, care to join us.

We have devised a protocol for sleeping at a Pemex: position the trailer so the door is visible, preferably under a light; park as far as possible from the semi-dobles that spew diesel fumes; tip the man who says he is security, who says he will be all eyes and ears while we sleep.

And slip a table knife under the pillow.

Things Change

Let’s say we are sailing up the west coast of Mexico in August of 1988. We are navigating with our Chart Guide, Third Edition. In the bay the chart shows Puerto Vallarta. Next is Nuevo Vallarta (that Johnny-come-lately); on to La Cruz, Punta de Mita, Sayulita, and then, in San Pancho’s location, “HUTS.”

Fast forward to last Saturday night at the polo club. The field is where the mango orchard used to be—when San Pancho had huts. Viewing is from multi-leveled terraces, some with sofas, some with tables, some with, well, beds. Queen-size, white leatherette, green suede bolsters and pillows. One expects grapes to be peeled. Twenty ponies are stabled on the opposite side of the field. Our players have nice white pants, high boots, knee guards and lovely posture. The sweet night comes on, the field is lit, and we sip wine and eat lobster as we watch the matches.

As you come up from Vallarta, just before the town where the big corn field used to be, you can’t miss the vast Cultural Center and its satellite condos. You can’t miss the fears of the townspeople about them either. Will the size and composition of the community shift San Pancho’s center of gravity? Can galleries with classy art, a 5000 square foot common room, restaurant, spa, and boutique hotels add anything of value to our happily balanced mix? There is, however, a movie theater.

Today, the seaside town of Kuta, in Bali, playground of Australians, resembles Vallarta with big hotels and hundreds of shops and restaurants. In 1970 my husband and I visited for the first time and shared a sunset on Kuta beach with a sarong-clad old guy, gone native. Just the three of us and a kid selling coconuts, the tiny thatched-roof village behind us. “You think Bali’s great now, you should have seen it in the Fifties,” he said. But then added, looking vaguely out to sea, “Of course, you had to put up with people saying, “You should have seen it in the Thirties.’ ”