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.