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.