Attachments

Four decades ago, as a young woman trying marriage and motherhood on for size, I lived among a cadre of North Americans placed willingly or not in a country not our own. Uprooted from across the United States, we were sent to supervise and protect the citizens who lived in what was then West Germany.

Naïve, brash, we fused into community, strangers who quickly grew familiar. We shared the travails of living in a country foreign to us, the richness of another culture, the hilarity of misunderstanding. We gossiped about the locals, traded shopping tips, and directed each other to great dining on a soldier’s salary.

With youthful exuberance we gathered together for traditional holidays and to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries and promotions. We formed attachments.

Fast friendships held for two, three, sometimes four years. Reassignment meant bittersweet goodbye with promise to write, call, and of course visit whenever paths might cross again. But the annual holiday greeting cards, the occasional birthday phone calls dwindled through the decades. We moved on.

Lately I have begun to reflect on that tight-knit community in which we lived forty-odd years ago.

In March 2005 my husband and I discovered San Pancho and within days purchased a winter home. We decided to live outside North America part of the year because we wanted sunshine, adventure, challenge, a touch of adversity to prove a bit of mettle still remains.

During the years we have met like-minded souls with whom we share the fun and trouble of living in a foreign place. We gossip about the locals, trade bargaining tips, and direct each other to great dining on social security salary. Attachments are cemented through weekly card games on the beach, shared dinners in the pueblo, organized hikes, and a myriad of volunteer opportunities.

But those attachments are not as furious as the ones formed 40-odd years ago. A sigh beyond the middle years, many of us have begun to assess stamina, security, and stability for the years ahead; some of us have begun to contemplate life more comfortable than life carved here.

Some of us are selling our homes in San Pancho, ready to move on. As before, there are promises to keep in touch, crisscross the country every couple of years to visit, call to commiserate the state of the States, comfort one another in time of need. But the attachments we have formed seem substantive this time around. Perhaps because there is less time to subjugate the priority of friendship. With age comes simplicity.

Attachments frayed with age, perhaps, but not with time.

Yakati Yak Jack

Today Manuel brings us a gift. Unannounced, he lumbers down the steps that lead from the street to our garden retreat lugging a bulbous object with both hands. His knees are splayed wide to better support the weight of what he carries. Teenage sons Harry and Edgar bring up the rear.

"Yaka," says Manuel. He looks around for an appropriate perch in which to set it down. The wide edge of the pool will do. "Deliciosa, y para la salud, excelente."

"He says it tastes good. And it’s good for you." Harry translates although we easily get the drift of where the scenario is going. Edgar wrinkles his nose. We soon learn why.

My husband and I had seen the gigantic globes of yaka, or jackfruit, hanging from hooks at fruit stands alongside the highway between Las Varas and San Pancho. We had never given close inspection. I scrutinize this specimen with suspicion as to edibility. The greenish pimply rind looks like a porcupine with snubbed-off quills. Harry tells us he doesn’t particularly like the taste of the fruit, but it’s okay when blended with milk and banana for breakfast. "Good for virility," he adds.

Okay. I’m game.

Manuel requests a knife, cooking oil, a bowl, another bowl with water, discarded newspaper. The ceremony begins. Like a surgeon he makes a clean cut, severing the beastie in two. He douses both hands in vegetable oil and plunges inside the folds of the fruit. Up to his wrists he curls his fingers around two-inch-long brown pods nestled beneath slippery squares of pale orange flesh. Pods tossed on the newspaper, pulpy flesh plopped in the bowl of water. A strong scent, like cheap perfume from the five and dime.

About 30 minutes later Manuel’s midwifery yields dozens of pods and a bowl heaped with slimy-looking foodstuff. He dunks the fruit a bit, swirls it around the bowl, offers me first bite.
Tastes like over-ripe cantaloupe this side of floozy: a little too much scent and slick for my taste, but, hey, it is interesting. Samples all around. My husband, Win, looks askance. Harry passes. So does Edgar. Manuel takes a sizeable chomp, grins.

I thank Manuel for expanding my culinary experience. He thanks me for the work we provide his family, and for the referrals we are happy to give our friends.

"Le gusta armadillo?" he asks, as he prepares to leave. I look at Harry. I look at Edgar. I look at Win. "Did Manuel say armadillo?" I ask."

"Afraid so," says Win.

A Stitch in Time

The sudden scream pierced my pleasant siesta. The sound was akin to an angry cat in the throes of comeuppance. I made my way from bedroom to laundry bodega, the apparent source of the high-pitch caterwaul. By the time I reached the washing machine sound had met fury: my fine, albeit rusted, Bosch thumped and shimmied a kind of tarantella across the brick bodega floor.

Load must be unbalanced, I thought. I stabbed the off button.

"What’s the problem?" The commotion had roused my husband, Win, from one of his fix-it projects.

"I’ll take care of it," I said. I stuck my hand in the belly of the Bosch, scrunched wet towels.

"I don’t think so. Smell it."

Burnt rubber. Uh-oh.

Win pulled the machine out of the bodega into the adjacent courtyard, removed its metal back plate.

"Bad news. It’s the belt. Snapped in two." He scrutinized the frayed ends. "Don’t know where we can find a belt to fit a Bosch."

"We’ll have to buy a new machine," I said. I ticked off the names of likely retailers: Costco, Wal-Mart, Tio Sam…"I can be ready to go in ten minutes…"

"Not so fast," said Win. He ran his finger over the tear, turned the busted belt this way and that.

"But we have company coming! We need to wash sheets, towels…we have four days before…"

"You can go to the river," said Win.

I think he was kidding.

During the next 48 hours Win focused on fixing the belt. First he knit the ends together with wire. But it snapped on the test spin. He then tried glue. Three tubes later, Win looked for another solution. The remedial attempts had truncated the belt; it was now too short to fit the machine. He looked around for material to elongate the belt as well as make it stronger. Here is what he applied with silicone: strands of webbing from a disintegrating lounge chair, a few inches of leather from the back of an equipal sofa, the strap from his rubber flip-flops.

Eureka! On a slow motion spin the belt held. But Win was worried. "It will break again. And when it does I don’t think I will be able to fix it."

We tried local hardware stores first. No belts. Perhaps one could be ordered?

I nearly wailed…no time…three days…laundry…guests...

The manager at Amutio, a major hardware store in Mezcales, did not have a belt either but intrigued with our problem flipped through a phone book for a likely retailer.

The shop he suggested was located on an unmarked street in nearby Bucerias. It did not carry a name either but the several washing machines in various states of deshabille stacked in the front yard were calling card enough. The woman behind the counter took a look at the old belt Win had stapled and glued then shook her head. She rooted around in the back of the shop, said she couldn’t find anything similar. She pointed to the layers of webbing and leather and rubber. Win laughed, explained his fix-it job. She returned to the back of the shop. The belt she eventually brought us was perfect. We took it home. It worked.

There is a moral to this small story. It touches on disposable societies up north and resourceful societies down south. While this gringa is still quick to toss the broken and buy the new, my husband has learned, by observation and osmosis, to do what our Mexican neighbors do: repair with materials at hand.

So we keep the patched up version of the Bosch belt. It could be useful for parts when and if the new belt breaks.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Basura in Basura out

The pile in the back yard was assuming amazing proportion: yard clippings, felled branches, fronds and nuts from a 30-foot-high coconut palm, broken brick, clumps of concrete from renovation projects.

And the bodega bulged with its own detritus: leftovers from the former owner of our home, small appliances rusted or broken, gadgets and gimcrackery brought from the states we discovered we did not need to enjoy life in San Pancho.

The thrice-weekly garbage service, tremendously improved since our arrival four years ago, has limitations. Although we oblige the expected Christmas tip (suggested $200 pesos), we can’t set out for pick up what we please. Items verboten include large sacks of yard waste, construction materials, debris of heft and girth. Once we tried to give the guys a rusted-out water heater. They tossed it in a neighbor’s vacant lot.

Periodically we’ve asked the location of a municipal dump. We have a truck. We are happy to cart our own stuff away. Response from the North Americans: My workers take care of it for me. Response from the Mexicans: It’s up the road, toward La Penita; colorful gesticulations signal the vague direction. We searched but all we ever found were unofficial garbage sites along the side of the highway. We considered following the municipal garbage truck to its final destination.

Last week we approached Manuel, bagging up brittle fronds from the palapa repair he completed for us.

"Where do you take that stuff," asked Win, my husband.

"To the dump," he said.

"Can we go there, too?"

"Not a problem. Open all the time."

Manuel drew a simple map. He and his workers left. Win and I executed a quick high-five, then began loading our truck.

Directions: from San Pancho head north. Just before reaching La Penita Pemex #8489, a tad past km 94, turn right. At this writing your landmark is a large pale yellow building. About two blocks, turn right when you see a store emblazoned with Coca-Cola advertising. Drive past a soccer field. Keep driving even though the road narrows to one lane. Keep driving past fields of agave, both sides of the street. Keep driving for approximately three kilometers. A guard shack stands left of the entrance.

The zopilotes will greet you, wicked-looking vultures that feed on what you would rather not think about. Park amidst the acres of garbage, the fish heads and dirty diapers and broken furniture and old clothing and deflated tires. Don’t be surprised if what you unload is quickly appropriated for a second life.

The municipal dump is open every day, around the clock. And it’s free.

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.

Another Police Story

Guadalajara, late afternoon. Traffic heading west, toward Zapopan, a thick slow braid in which cars, trucks, buses weave in and out of three lanes.

Impatient drivers rev radio, punch horn.

The cacophony absorbs the wail of the police siren. Tired, focused on getting back to San Pancho after a two-day shopping trip, we are oblivious to the motorcycle cop until he materializes alongside our truck. He cuts in front then motorcade-style proceeds ahead of us, one block, two blocks. At the first intersection he beckons we should turn right and follow him. He parks. We park.

Leaning into the driver’s window, inches from my husband’s face, he props elbows on the sill, smiles hard and bright, his teeth a double row of chicles.

"Buenas tardes," says Win, my husband.

"Good afternoon," says the cop. A Cheshire grin implies he is pleased to bag a nice big truck, loaded with furniture, U.S. license plate. Must be ricos.

"Un problema?" asks Win.

"You are going too fast. Your license, please."

Win switches to English. "Traffic is slow. We are going the same speed as the others," he says while fishing inside his wallet.

"But we have photo proof!"

"I want to see it."

"The radar truck is over there." The cop waves his arm too fast to ascertain direction.

Win cranes for a look. No police truck visible.

Banter begins, guy talk about motorcycles, diesel trucks, the high price of tolls on the autopista, the high price of living in Mexico. As the men make small talk I mentally calculate how many pesos we have left, how we might offer a small bribe without causing more trouble. Bribes are illegal. Offer a mordida to the wrong official and you might see the inside of a Mexican jail. I can spare $200 pesos, about $20 U.S.

"Now, sir, I need the truck registration."

"And I need proof we were speeding."

"I must write an infraccion for $1,000 pesos." He pulls a pad from his pocket, begins to scribble.

"What! This is not justified!"
The cop checks us out. "Okay," he says. "Different infacccion." He points to the seatbelt hanging on a hook behind Win’s head. "You are not wearing a seat belt. Please pay me $400 pesos."

"But I’m wearing a seat belt," I say, tired of discussion. "So we should pay only $200 pesos."

"How much money you have?" he asks me.

"I need money for gas and tolls. I guess I can spare $200 pesos."

Passing a paperback through the window, he tells me to put the money inside. I make a show of smoothing bills, closing the book, returning it.

"You have trouble in Guadalajara again, you just say you know officer #91200. You will be okay." With a brilliant smile he zooms away.

"Right," my husband says, snapping his seat belt into place. "Number 91200 must be cop code. Probably means these gringos are good for $200."

Bougainvillea Battles

The wild tangle of color sold me on the San Pancho property before the real estate agent had parked the car. Masses of magenta, fuchsia, tangerine sprawled across the stucco entry walls, spilled over them, arched back in sweet coquette. Bougainvillea, paper-thin bracts of saturated color, teased me inside the gate to first view the gardens and three-room structure that would become my winter home.

Bougainvillea thrives half a world away from vegetation endemic to where I live in the States: fir, cedar, and rhododendron landscape the Pacific Northwest. Bougainvillea represents another, more exciting world for me. The tropics. Sloe-eyed, exotic. Crayola-colored sunshine stretching beyond summer to hug the winter months. I was mad for the exuberant shrub.

My first season here I nurtured my bougainvillea: daily inspected for plagas (garden pests), coaxed an errant branch, fertilized and watered when I deemed fit. They responded with affection: the plants thickened to a bower that necessitated ducking; bougainvillea inside the gates climbed walls, twined up posts, nested atop the dried palmera-frond palapas.

My husband, tall, reduced to stooping beneath the bower to reach the house, suggested we trim the bougainvillea back.

"The thorns are cutting me to ribbons," he said. "They attack me every time I come through the gate."

"No!"

"They are overgrown and probably doing damage to the other plants, not to mention the roof of the palapa. And…," his coup de grace, "they are very messy. We must constantly sweep the sidewalk."

I acquiesced to reducing the depth of the bower but stood my ground on bougainvillea inside the garden walls.

Such was our compromise come April and time to pack up and head north for the summer. With trepidation I talked to Anselmo, the man we hired to care for our garden.

"Take extra care with my bougainvillea," I said. "Watch for critters, fertilize with triple 17, don’t water too much…"

"I hate bougainvillea," he said, his English to the point. "Thorns worse than scorpion sting."

"Be more careful then. This is my favorite plant."

"I take care of everything," he said, with a wide sweep of his arm. "When you come back you won’t recognize this place."

Anselmo was true to his word. During the summer he ripped out every offending plant. We returned in the fall to find a stark entry and landscape inside the gate devoid of color. My riotous bougainvillea laid to rest.

When confronted with the misdemeanor, Anselmo beamed.
"I took care of it for you," he said. "No more ugly thorns. No more to sweep." His smile pulsed with pride of accomplishment.

I have tried to replicate the first whirl of color that beckoned me to buy this house four years ago. Starts of bougainvillea poke out of pots and peer up the walls. Summer gardeners post-Anselmo tend them at my request. But each fall I return to a heap of dung-colored bracts on the ground and thorny stems devoid of life. This year I may give up and plant rhododendrons.

I live in a restaurant

I live in a restaurant. Although my husband and I purchased a popular San Pancho eatery in 2005 to remodel for our winter getaway, its previous life lingers. New paint, fresh plaster, has not obliterated the first life of our Mexican home. The walls still hum with the memory of the meals. Sandra’s Restaurant was seasoned to perfection.

The telephone-pole advertising is tattered or missing now. The tables dressed in colorful linens are gone. The iconic photographs of Frida Kahlo that decorated the outdoor dining room grace bedroom walls instead. The wine and Margarita glasses that shimmered over the bar now stack behind cupboard doors. The dozens of votive candles burned to nubbins. The restaurant’s palapa-covered dining rooms, rich with tropical ambience, breathe new life as a potting shed, a studio, and a living room al fresco.

It took us a year to sort out our lot. When she sold her restaurant, Sandra left behind cartons of culinary accoutrements. Some of the pots and pans and dishes we kept, most we gave away. And Sandra left behind a behemoth of a stove. An oversize forged iron gas contraption on coaster wheels we call Black Beauty. She’s a cumbersome thing, not easily arranged within the kitchen work area. So we designed the space to suit her needs rather than ours. Black Beauty dominates the interior of the small three-room house.

Sandra sold the restaurant, she tells us, because customer demand grew stressful. Although it was a family affair with Beto, Carlos, Gaby and others tending bar, making music, taking orders, it was Sandra in the kitchen night after night, broiling and baking, stewing and stirring and arranging upon terra cotta plates her signature dishes.

She needed a break. But it wasn’t a long one. Cooking her passion, in short order she opened a catering business. Next door to us, next door to the former restaurant that established her reputation. We know her business thrives because most afternoons we whiff the sweet smell of her success wafting beyond her open kitchen walls: garlic sautéed in butter, cumin toasted golden, rosemary crisped in olive oil. She talks of opening another restaurant. Perhaps next season. A scaled-down version of the one we call home.

I have come to realize life in a restaurant has its advantages. When customers clabber down our concrete stairs in search of an excellent meal we have an opportunity to practice Spanish. And when people in San Pancho ask where we live, we say Sandra’s Restaurant. No address required.

Guess who's coming to dinner

The two-hour conversation, we hoped, was ready to wrap. Anselmo was a charming raconteur but the get-acquainted meeting had grown out of proportion. Yes, he would be happy to take care of the garden. Yes, he would be happy to begin immediately. Yes, he would be responsible for watering and maintenance during our summer sojourn in the States.

One hundred minutes and several cervezas later Anselmo had shared his life story. My husband and I tried to follow the twists and turns of the anecdotes but Anselmo’s dialect transcended classroom Spanish. My niggling headache inched toward meltdown.

Anselmo made a motion to stand. We popped up in encouragement.
"It would be an honor to invite you to dinner," he said, using sign language to facilitate our understanding. "My wife makes excellent ceviche. She will cook for you." Anselmo kissed his fingers in appreciation of her cuisine.

"Thank you," I said. "We would be happy to meet her. Where do you…"
"We will come here, to your house. We will bring everything. Tomorrow, five o’clock."

Anselmo and Maya arrived on the dot dressed in crisp cotton pressed for a party. Glossy black hair pulled into a tight chignon, lipstick impossibly red, Maya was lovely in her middle years. She nodded hello, almost smiled. Plump arms embraced an assortment of bowls, sacks, the accoutrements of a confident cook. Dark eyes darted beyond me, assessing the kitchen. She bustled to the island counter. Anselmo followed toting a six pack of beer and bottle of tequila.

"The water was shut-off early today," I said. "We still have water in the tinaco (cistern). Will you be able…"
Maya shrugged. "No problema," she said.

My husband and I took seats at the counter. Anselmo passed us each a beer.
"It is the freshest fish," he said, his English broken but confident. "Huachinango, cooking all day in the lime." He proceeded to describe how Maya had cleaned, cubed the red snapper, submerged the chunks in a lime and water concoction that cooks without heat. As Maya pulled from sacks the rest of the ingredients, a vocabulary lesson ensued.

"Apio," she said, pointing to the long limbs of celery. "Cebolla…aguacate…ajo," she continued, spreading out on the counter onion, avocado, garlic. "Chipotle…cilantro…"

"I know cilantro," I said, pleased with myself. "I like cilantro."
Maya nodded. "Jugo," she said, pulling out cans of V8 juice.

Cutting board requested and produced, Maya set to work, the chop of her blade performance art. My husband and I pulled back a bit as we watched the speed and swipe of a pro.

Dinner was delicious. The ceviche tender, almost sweet, served atop corn tortillas crisped in salted oil. Sliced avocados on the side. Cold beer, tequila shots to cement a new friendship.

I wanted to repay Maya and Anselmo for the excellent dinner. I would prepare for them a specialty of my own: shrimp empananda, black beans, bananas baked in honey and cream.

We found Anselmo at his home, extended our invitation.
"What day is best with you and Maya?"
"Martes. Tuesday, next Tuesday," he said. Spanish chased by English to make sure we understood. "Six o’clock."

The following Monday I drove to Puerto Vallarta, 45 minutes south, to shop at a supermarket replete with food stuffs not always available in San Pancho’s small sidewalk stores. Shrimp, large and fresh, cream cheese, Parmesan, black beans, epazote and oregano. An assortment of olives, marinated crudites, imported wafers to whet the appetite.

I began preparation early Tuesday morning. Devein shrimp, saute with garlic, nestle on tortillas slathered in cream cheese, dust with Parmesan, fold in half, refrigerate until time to bake; cook black beans, mash, refry in olive oil, oregano, epazote; whip the sauce to top bananas.

At five-thirty I was ahead of my game. Food kept warm, tapas arranged on the coffee table, wine and beer chilled. My husband suggested I was trying too hard. Maya and Anselmo would be happy with whatever I could throw together, he said. I ignored him, rummaged in the cupboard for colorful cotton napkins.

Six o’clock and we were in position. Six-thirty came and went.
"Thirty minutes is not necessarily late in this culture," my husband said, checking his watch against the clock on the bar.
But seven o’clock is more than fashionably late, I decided. We nibbled around the edges of the crudite platter.

Eight o’clock, eight-thirty, nine o’clock. We decided there must have been a misunderstanding. I began to reheat dinner then opened the wine. We selected a DVD with plans to settle in for the evening.

Five minutes later Anselmo bounded down the stairs that led from the street to our garden living room. "I have the head of a camaron!" he said. He thumped the side of his head to demonstrate its physical similarity to an oversize shrimp.

Not waiting for an invitation to "Pase," he plopped down on the couch, spread his knees to accommodate belly girth, thumped his head again for good measure. Maya followed him down the stairs.

Their explanation was delivered with a flurry of gestures. They had gone to dinner at a friend’s restaurant. After a couple of beers and hefty blue-plate specials, Maya suddenly remembered our dinner invitation. So here they were.

"Uh," I began, "would you like something to eat?"
"Gracias," said Anselmo. "But we are stuffed to here!"
Cervezas, however, would be appreciated. Maya and Anselmo settled in for long conversation. Too polite to eat in front of them, we kept our dinner on the back burner.

The incident discombobulated me. But since then I’ve learned a thing or two about living here: sometimes people lose sense of time; sometimes people accept invitations just to be polite; and sometimes people hesitate to socialize with those who hire them.

My learning curve continues its ascent.

The Curious Crab Story

The scuttle sound startled me. I set down my coffee cup, surveyed the early morning landscape. Nearly four a.m., the kitchen still dark, peaceful. My husband asleep, Tango the cat curled in nocturnal nonchalance.

The scuttle grew insistent. Click-click on ceramic tile caught Tango’s attention. She jumped from her chair, took a tentative step toward a large floor fan parked in one corner of the kitchen. Whiskers stiff, ears flapped, Tango prepared for battle. One paw shot forward, curled around the base of the fan, poked air. She was on to something. I grabbed a broom, made feeble stabs on the other side of the fan.

Chaos ensued: the thing scurried from its hiding place, Tango darted after it. I jumped on a chair, handfuls of bathrobe clutched around my knees. The thing paused long enough for me to assess it: six-inch gray rounded-oblong with claw-like appendages jutting from each side of its body. I stared in disbelief. The claws looked to be crab. Crab? Here? Five blocks from the beach? The thing reared up, stared me down with eyes tiny and black as old-fashioned jet beads, waved claws then scooted sideways under a counter.

My shrieks rousted my husband from slumber. With a minimum of grumble he trapped and transported the thing out the door to the backyard, set it underneath a banana tree.

Imagination percolating, I began to embroider my morning adventure: a crab crawled from the sea, scampered along cobblestone streets, crisscrossed yards and porches to squeeze through the screen door of my kitchen. I couldn’t wait to share the story.

Ines, who owns a popular restaurant on San Pancho’s main street, Tercer Mundo, was first to hear my news.

"You won’t believe what happened," I said. She smiled, tilted her head in encouragement.
"A crab came into my kitchen! It must have walked up from the beach...or another beach...or..."

"It is common," said Ines, trying to suppress a laugh. "It is a sign the rains are coming." She told me late spring thousands of the soft-shelled land crabs navigate down the mountains east of San Pancho. By mid-summer the roads are thick with them. With charming accent, she added, "They go crunch-crunch under the tires."

Mildly deflated I tucked away my anecdote before I told others. But in the back of my mind resides yet a tall tale about a lonely land crab that makes an incredible journey. Perhaps I should write about it.

Channing: How We Found San Pancho

San Carlos, Sonora, was my introduction to living in Mexico. Situated on the Sea of Cortez, on mainland Mexico, the tiny town casts a lure: sport fishing, boating, scuba diving. My husband and I loved the slow pace, opportunity to practice Spanish, the proximity to Guaymas, a working town that does not inveigle tourism. In 2002 we invested in San Carlos; we bought a condominium unit on the beach.

It was paradise. Dolphins frolicked and pelicans preened a seashell’s throw from our patio. Each sunrise and sunset broke the gasp-o-meter. But a burgeoning band of developers thought it paradise as well. By our third winter in San Carlos the view had changed: new hotels and condos designed for North American retirees began to crawl along the beach. Gated communities sprawled beyond the town into Sonoran desert. Mid-price homes resembled dandelions gone to seed.

We watched, with growing dismay, San Carlos morph into a Tucson bedroom community. Time to move on, we told ourselves. Look for a more authentic Mexican experience. In March 2005 we hit the road. Sonora, Sinaloa, Nayarit. On day four we stumbled into Sayulita, a beach town less than an hour north of Puerto Vallarta.
Sayulita was charm personified: cobblestone streets, town square flanked by a quaint church, gazebo, artisans dressed in native costume. The streets thrummed with chatter. We were enthralled.
For two days we peered at posters plastered in local real estate windows. Homes were enticing. But prices were not. For $300,000 U.S. we could buy a little fixer-upper a mile from the beach. For $500,000 U.S. the fixer-upper might have a peek-a-view.
Sayulita was beyond budget.

Disappointed, we decided to move on. Loath to leave, I took a last look around: street carts heaped with fruit, kiosks ajumble with CDs, blenders, well-worn tools. A fish market, a hole-in-the-wall grocery, an ice cream shop. I watched a green and white bus crank open its doors, spew passengers dusty from their ride.
A North American woman disembarked, approached.
"Excuse me," she said, "do you have the time?"
A dialogue ensued. She was selling her home in Sayulita, had purchased another in Puerto Vallarta, a better locale for a middle-age single woman. I mentioned this part of Mexico might be too expensive for a second home. She said not necessarily. "Americans are buying and building in San Pancho now. You might want to take a look. Just a few miles north of here." She pointed, made sure I understood the direction. "It’s actually a much nicer village," she said. "Especially for retirees." She shrugged. "Sayulita is not as nice as it used to be."
Next day we drove three miles north to the pueblo of San Pancho. Crossed a cobblestone bridge, braked for a horse and rider, moved over to accommodate a produce cart. We liked the simplicity of this village, life for locals.

"Let’s talk with a real estate agent," I said. "Just see what’s happening here. No commitment." My husband was willing to assuage my curiosity.
The inventory was low, explained the real estate agent. We leafed through his book of photos. Two houses looked okay, but…but what was this? Lush foliage, plunge pool, four palapas, a terraced garden that led to an outdoor living room.

"I would like to see this," I said, stabbing the photo. I loved the look of the place.
"It’s a restaurant," he said.
"Could we live in it?"
"Not a problem. There’s a kitchen, of course, one bedroom, one bathroom."
We toured the property. Weighed the pros, overlooked the cons. Price was right. Might need a little work.
Dear Reader, we bought it.

It has been three winters since we made the move to San Pancho. The restaurant required more work than anticipated to make it a comfortable home. We continue to repair, upgrade and install basic amenities. But the sweat has sweet reward: bougainvillea, lilies, coconut palms, bird-of-paradise, a wild and wonderful tropicana Henri Rouseau might only imagine.

In addition to its visual charm, our restaurant-cum-winter retreat has proved an oasis. It is several degrees cooler than the street above us; palo santo, banana trees, jungle vines shelter us from mid-day heat. A low concrete entry wall muffles sound. But we keep the rustic wooden gate propped open. The street is alive; we don’t want to miss the cacophony: vendors, trucks in death rattle, neighbors about their daily business.
At least once a week someone enters the gate, calls out, "Hola? Are you open today?" The restaurant had a good reputation. Visitors come to dine. With regret I tell them this is now a home. A home in which we intend to stay.

Channing Enders

For more than 25 years I had the pleasure and great good fortune of writing for newspapers and non-profit and corporate magazines; I also got to sit behind the editor’s desk at a Seattle suburb weekly newspaper. For a couple of years I taught creative writing (all writing is creative, isn’t it?) at a local community college.
As seasoned reporters say (but I’m not that old!), ink runs in my veins. And I couldn’t cap it. In my retirement I continue to write. My husband reads the first draft, provides historical perspective: he shared these stories with me. My fellow San Pancho writers remind me grammar is a good thing. I heed their advice. Most of the time.
Born in the stateside San Francisco, raised in Seattle, I divide my time between homes in San Pancho, Nayarit, and Washington state. In addition to my husband, my family includes five children, three grandchildren, one cat. The latter rules the roost, both homes.