The Big Chill

I was raised in the Midwest and I know cold weather. Phrases like “wind-chill, sub-zero, single digits, and deep freeze,” don’t scare hardy folks from Chicago like me. Parkas, ear-muffs, leggings, long underwear, boots, scarves, gloves and wooly socks: clothing labels that say duo-fold, fleece-lined and down-filled are winter wardrobe basics. But when the morning temperature here in San Pancho is 50 degrees, it is bone-chilling; a cold that is impossible to escape in an unheated concrete block house with clay tile floors.

There is some comfort in knowing that I am not the only person piling on the layers. Hooded sweatshirts have appeared in the pueblo. Workers huddle in the rear of pickups wearing jackets that look alarmingly like parkas. Bundled against the cold, the children are hurried along, their small feet scuffling in oversized boots. Boots?

Still, I am reluctant to mention the weather to friends and family back in the States. I am not likely to get much sympathy when they haven’t had a ray of sunshine in six weeks and the high temperature for the day is 10 degrees. And it’s true, despite the record chill, afternoons here are in the 70s and balmy; we can go to the beach.

When friends were planning a visit recently I pondered how to suggest they bring one or two warmer items to wear.

“It is a little cool in the morning,” I wrote, “and again in the evening.”

Just as I expected they reminded me of their winter endurance skills. Fine I thought, we’ll see, and put the small electric heater in their room, just in case.

It wasn’t until they had been here a few days that they conceded it was a little “cooler” than they had remembered from last year.

“Dinner on the patio?” I asked, as I carried our plates toward the door.

“Maybe eating inside would be cozier,” our guests said.

In front of the oven?

The Night Visitor

Rustling sounds from the vacant lot behind our bedroom wall stir my sleep. Is it a gentle breeze moving among the wildly overgrown thicket of plants and weeds, a brief interlude in the night? Again, the soft swishing intrudes, scuffling footsteps, an iguana or a creature beyond imagining. I am not going to wake up, I vow, but open my eyes just enough to see the clock, 2:00 a.m. It is hardly a time for an investigation; it’s dark, too dark to see anything. I snuggle further beneath the comforter, burrowing, my head tucked inside like a tortoise.

No way, now I am awake. I strain to hear the noise again; did we lock the bedroom door I wonder? But now there is only the usual cacophony of our neighborhood: dogs, roosters, faint strains of music. I drift into an uneasy sleep.

Early morning light filters through the windows. I am groggy from a fitful night and ready for coffee. I see him as soon as I open the door to the patio beyond our bedroom. He stands perfectly still, a white horse, ghostly against the striated sky. He is tethered to a long rope which corrals him into a small area just meters away from our wall. He moves slowly among the brambles, grazing steadily. I watch him for a few minutes and make tentative horse-calling noises; he doesn’t look up.

With coffee in hand, I give him the once-over. I don’t recognize this horse as one who belongs to any of my neighbors. For one thing, he doesn’t look very healthy. I can see the outline of his ribs. And what’s more, he’s quiet, not one whinny for my benefit.

I watch him throughout the day and make an occasional attempt at communication. Head down, he ignores me. His movements track the sun as it journeys to the ocean, and he stays within its warmth. In the purple/pink haze of the sunset, he glows. In the morning, he is gone.

Danger

This is my new response to the question, “Are you safe in Mexico?”

“As safe as I am in Evanston, Illinois” I say. Here’s why.

It is 5:00 pm on a hot and sunny Fourth of July. We are ready for a cook-out, a good old fashioned fourth; hamburgers and hotdogs, fresh corn on the cob and potato salad. Comfortably encamped on our deck with friends, we have iced drinks in hand.

Police cars, sirens screaming, screech to a halt outside. They block our street. If the sheer number of squad cars is any indication of a threat to our safety, we are in serious danger. We watch as police claim access to the back yards and alleys on foot, rifles at the ready. What is going on?

Murder, just blocks away. A twenty year old male was shot and killed while driving his car; a gang retaliation. Bloodied, dying, his car crossed two lanes of traffic and crashed onto the opposite sidewalk. On this bright sunlit day, miraculously no one was in his path. He died alone. Now, the search is on for his attacker.

A familiar tale told and retold in the media, both in Mexico and the U.S. Murders, the mayhem of drugs and violence, bodies strewn across the country. Mexico produces the drugs; the U.S. consumes them. Drug lords and gang members, locked in the world of suppliers and users kill each other on both sides of the border. There is no escaping the war that is being waged, not in Mexico or in our quiet suburb of Chicago. It’s the cost of doing business and we are all paying the price.

News reports the next day describe the victim alternately as a hoodlum with a long arrest record and as a misguided young man, mixed up with the wrong crowd. Outrage is expressed that the revelation of his crime-ridden past somehow dimishes the loss of his young life. Perhaps there was promise ahead, if only he had resisted the pull of gangs and drugs.

“If only…” we say, thinking of choices and risks. I know we won’t walk away from our rich full life in Mexico nor will we abandon Evanston, where we have spent half of our lives. We have made our choices; as for the risks, we’ll take them too.

The Librarian: Lonely No More

Was it only a year ago that I, the “lonely librarian,” sat on the floor in the library at entreamigos surrounded by boxes, tape and markers, packing books for storage? Last April the future of our small community organization seemed bleak. Staying in the building on the main street that entreamigos had occupied for three years was not an option. Its location near the beach was prime real estate; the landlord had other plans.

A large abandoned warehouse at the other end of town had been given to entreamigos but renovating it into useable space was overwhelming. First, it would take a massive effort to clear the building of years of debris and garbage. Then, even with the possibility of a $36,000 grant from The Three Swallows Foundation, the San Pancho community would have to raise twice that amount of money to begin construction.

Did the community care enough to make the effort? When larger cities, including my home town of Evanston, Illinois, are closing their neighborhood libraries, could a project of this size in our small town possibly succeed?

The answer is a resounding “yes.” Having a library and community center did matter. Today entreamigos has a brand-new home; in cash, more than $100,000 was raised. The dilapidated warehouse was restored inch by inch into a completely “green” space through hundreds of hours of volunteer labor and donations of supplies.

A few months ago I sat on the floor in the new library at entreamigos and unpacked all of the old boxes. The newly painted wooden shelves, recycled tires and crates, were ready to be filled. The large, airy space with brightly-painted tables and chairs and comfy pillows beckoned eager readers. It had been a labor of love for all of us, a commitment to libraries and to education that San Pancho was willing to make.

In Evanston, news of a $10 million deficit in the budget sounded the death knell for the neighborhood libraries. Closing the two branch libraries was not a new threat; in fact, it was almost an annual event at budget time. But this year was different, and the end of the neighborhood libraries seemed imminent.

There was one possibility. The Branch libraries received a six-month reprieve to raise $200,000. Could the Evanston community raise that amount to keep the Branches open?

To date, 1000 volunteers have raised $65,000 with more commitments of support daily. But a “For Rent” sign in the window of the South Branch library has added to the pressure.

Come on Evanston. If we can do it in San Pancho…

Can You Hear Me Now?

Gail:

4:30 AM. We are jolted from sleep by the ringing phone. It’s the cordless handset that alerts us to an incoming SKYPE internet call. Instantly awake, we rush to the computer. The number on the screen calms fears, brings annoyance. It’s not family, it’s a long-time customer with equipment problems calling Bill.

When we first came to San Pancho nearly ten years ago, there were only a handful of public telephones scattered around the pueblo. Armed with a stack of phone cards, I would walk from one to the other to find the shortest line. It took two phone cards and a long series of numbers to execute one call. Under pressure, I would inevitably misdial and have to start again. The polite coughs and shuffling feet behind me felt like signs of impatience and that did not make it easier.

Carolyn:

You had it easy, Gail. When we got her fifteen years ago there were two phones and a fax machine in a little hole-in-the-wall a block from the beach. One of the old families was running the business, and it was a life saver. There was a chalk board mounted on the outside wall where your name appeared when you had a fax. If you were awaiting important news you’d be down there every few minutes until your fax arrived.

My husband was trying to have it both ways, keep a software writing job and come to Mexico too. He would take his laptop to the little office and plug it into a phone to download his email. One day, the download went on until his bill was up to 200 pesos (when 200 pesos was real money) and he had to quit. The next, he drove into Vallarta in search of a faster download--no, internet cafes used phone lines there, too, and though they didn’t charge 10 pesos a minute as in San Pancho, the email was still taking too long to come through.

Gail:

Then you understand how excited we were in 2004 when we our house was completed and we could apply for a private line.
“We’re very sorry. No more phone lines are available in San Pancho,” Telmex said. They would put us on the wait list. But the number of people wanting phones had exploded and we ended up waiting two years. The good news was that, by then, we could get broadband, too.

Carolyn:

That was rough. We got our phone when the first twenty private lines were offered, but we were on dial up for a long time.

Gail:

Then SKYPE! We loved it! Then a cell phone tower! Ten year olds in the pueblo had cell phones. Soon we did, too.

Emails—we get lots of them. Many promise eternal happiness if we forward same to 50 of our closest friends and every on-line purchase results in special offers. But my sister gets in touch every morning and we can stay close to family and friends. We pay our bills and read the newspapers on-line, too.

SKYPE calls—we get a lot of them too. Bill’s customers want him to fix their problems. Our sons call with questions about air conditioners and water filtration systems, or when the keys are locked inside the car in a snowstorm. But they also call to check in, to share good news, and to ask Bill for his coconut shrimp recipe.

By the way, Carolyn, did you ever find out what was in that email?

Carolyn:

It turned out to be a video clip of a rhinoceros trying to copulate with a very attractive Volvo.

Just Another Day in Paradise

To-do list, December 15:

1. Bucerias: find Sammy the upholsterer, drop off cushions. At the orange building (or is it green?) turn left, and then turn right. Look for his shop behind El Famar Restaurant. “Tapiceria” is painted on the wall.

Sammy’s great. He takes our cushions, we give him the fabric, we chat about extra pillows, we agree on a price. His fisherman-friend comes by in his truck with his wife and daughter. Sammy suggests we buy some fish. We look at the fish. We all agree it is very good fish. But we can’t buy it now, we explain. I show him our list: we have a lot to do. Check!

2. Pemex gas station: fill tank. No self-service pumps here. An attendant fills the tank, cleans the windshield. We give him the customary tip and are good to go. Check.

Our attendant especially likes the windshield wipers on the headlights of our Volvo. We all agree they’re unusual. We don’t tell him we’ve had the car for eight years and we still don’t know how they work. Check!

3. Lloyds: change money. Mega: buy groceries. This is our own mini-mall: fast food, banks and cellular phone stores. If a Subway restaurant opened here, it would be perfect.

To-do list near completion, and we feel very efficient! Suddenly, as we’re driving, there is an ear-splitting noise in the car, as if something has exploded. And something has; the entire back window of the Volvo has shattered.

Wait, that’s not on the list.

We pull to the side of the road, leap out and stare in amazement at what is left of our back window. Tiny pieces of glass are everywhere. We search in vain for a rock or air-to-ground missile that has done so much damage. The cause of the exploding window mystifies us.

But we’re not easily defeated. Not here, not in Mexico, where automobiles suffer indignities never imagined in the US. On to the shopping mall. We take turns guarding the car. The car-wash tag team approaches. Don’t they notice we don’t have a back window? We have our groceries and our pesos, back to San Pancho.

With tedious precision Bill removes the remaining glass and creates a new fashion statement; a customized back window out of pink Styrofoam secured by bungee cords. It will be a long time before we can find a replacement. In the meantime, we join the legions of car owners who have patched, wired, glued and taped their cars together. Our neighbors laugh. “Your car is now Mexicanado,” they say. Check!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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/

It's a bird...

It’s a plane, parked on the beach just feet from the malecón, Pancho’s lovely ocean-front plaza. Fortunately it isn’t a Boeing 747! It’s an Ultralight, a small two-seater aircraft that my son Larry, a pilot, refers to as “conduit and bed sheets.”

An aura of adventure and mystery surround the unoccupied plane’s appearance. Did it taxi up to the bar at Las Palmas restaurant so that its thirsty pilot could order a quick beer, taking “para llevar (to go)” to new heights? Is it a marketing director’s dream, another innovative way of introducing San Pancho to prospective buyers?

The real story? Here in San Pancho we gather facts and opinions like pieces of a giant jig-saw puzzle. A little information here, a little hearsay there, and you know as much as you’re ever going to know.

It’s Saturday afternoon in tranquil San Pancho and the beach is crowded with families spread out along the sand, catching waves in the ocean. Further down the beach where the plane has landed, its pilot and passenger have decided that some refreshments are in order. How many refreshments they had is unclear, but let’s just say that observers later describe their takeoff as “shaky.”

Flying too low above the ocean, the wing of the plane is caught momentarily by a wave. Unable to right itself, (remember the bed sheets?) the plane tilts downward, the force of the water pulling it further off-balance and finally submerging it. Swimmers paddle furiously away from the sinking plane while others plunge into the waves to pull the plane and its occupants to safety. Unbelievably, no one is hurt.

The drama concludes with the arrest of the pilot and his passenger and the damaged plane planted on the beach. A few days later, the plane provides a comfy spot for a small child’s nap.

Call me nostalgic: I can’t help but recall the days, not so very long ago, when the only motorized vehicle on the beach was the old dune buggy that belongs to Turtle Frank, the venerable guardian of baby turtle nests.

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.

Caution: Construction Ahead (Continued)

Dear readers, you may remember the house next door to ours. It was under construction when we returned to the States in May last year. Our lot, set high into the hillside, provided a birds-eye view of the building activity. Below us the first floor had been completed. A second floor, with exterior staircases, was planned. There was talk of a palapa (thatched palm) roof. Speculation surrounded the final design. No one, including our neighbor who was building the house, seemed to know. We’d have to wait and be surprised.

And we were! When we arrived in October, the house remained at one story. There were even two tinacos (water tanks) on the roof, along with piles of scrap lumber and rebar. Surely that meant the construction was complete. Good news? Not so fast. Now the roof of the house was one step away from our garden. It gave new meaning to the quote “one small step for man.”

How would you get to the roof next door? It’s simple. The completed staircases, one front and one rear, lead directly to it. The roof was an invitation to come over and visit. And if we weren’t at home, well, better yet. Our security, gone; the front door, irrelevant. We were on lockdown; all the entry doors to the house, all the time. What else could we do?

Complaining didn’t help. I tried. As friends visited, they looked across at the roof and declared, “Build a wall!”More concrete? We couldn’t do it. We loved the openness of the garden, and our view of the pueblo and the mountains. Walled in, we’d feel isolated.

“Hierro, iron,” Irma, our housekeeper, suggested one morning as we stood eyeball to eyeball with our new neighbor while she hung her laundry. We smiled, exchanged greetings across the roof, and then made a rapid retreat to the kitchen. We needed a fence.

“Iron,” we agreed. Irma said Jose Flores Garcia had a very good herreria (iron shop) in La Penita. His work was excellent, she assured us, and he’d have the best price.

My husband Bill, labored over the design. If the fence were too high, it would resemble a jail; too low, it would be easy to step over. It should have sharp points at the top, and hooks; all manner of painful appendages. We wanted it to be stately and elegant, and, at the same time, to look impenetrable. Compulsive? You could say that.

But Jose understood our dilemma and added his suggestions to Bill’s drawings. He designed the perfect fence, a lovely addition to our garden. It’s not the eyesore we anticipated. It adds charm and security. Are there more surprises ahead? Will there be a second floor? Stay tuned.

Obama Salad

The unpacking could wait. It was our first day back in San Pancho and Irma, our housekeeper, wanted to talk politics. Dispensing with chit-chat, she asked, “Who do you think will be the next President of the United States?”

“Obama, I hope.”

“What about your family and friends?” she asked, “Are they going to vote for him?”

“They are,” I said. “There’s a lot of support for him in our community.”

But then I laughed, thinking about my ninety-five year old mother who refused to disclose her decision right up to the day I left.

“I’m undecided, “she said slyly. "

Undecided? My mother was the only undecided voter I knew. But how could she, a lifelong Democrat, desert us now? I tell Irma about my mother but also about my friend at the library who spent every weekend in Iowa with the Obama campaign, going door to door to register voters.

“It’s complicated and certainly not a sure thing,” I added. “What do you think, Irma?”

“I would vote for him.” she said, firmly. “I really want him to win. He’s the best person and he’ll be good for Mexico and the United States.”

Election fever was alive and well on the Mexico side of the border. When we visited friends, election news dominated every conversation. And with only days to go, we unapologetically stayed tuned to CNN. We hung on the polls, the blather of the commentators, the red and blue projections. My email overflowed with links to serious op-ed pieces and YouTube. Worried emails, panicked emails, hopeful emails crowded my inbox; passions spilled across the screen.

Not all our fellow Obama supporters had TV and we couldn’t face election night alone. We called, we invited, we offered a ham and potato salad dinner, and, as people said “yes,” the group grew from five to ten to fifteen. It seemed there was a mutual need to spend this evening together.

And so we gathered, collecting in small groups. Platters of food heaped the table; Nancy’s “Obama salad,” as she called it, Jim’s salsa, Faby’s apple torte. Some of us stayed glued to the television as if seeing would be believing. Others ate for comfort the table, just within sight and earshot. Out of view, some others, too nervous, found the patio their place of choice. Bad news would not dare to reach them there.

It was early, too early; many states had not yet reported, we were cautioned. Wolf Blitzer didn’t dare call it yet, but we knew. We could do the math. Scenes from Grant Park in Chicago, our home town, made us cheer. Illuminating the night sky, the mammoth screen said it all, Barack Obama, President-elect.

Faces from around the globe gave us even greater joy – people in the United States, Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Middle East – all of us witnessing a historic moment, all of us celebrating. That night we were as perfect as Nancy’s Obama salad...a bright colorful mix, a medley of flavors, together in San Pancho.

On the Road to San Pancho

The woman’s voice from the dashboard announces, “In three point five kilometers, turn right onto I 80 toward Qptlantapque.”

“What did she say? What is she talking about?” I ask. I’m driving, peering at the array of green signs ahead which look vaguely familiar. Not one comes close to matching any destination our audible guide has pronounced with such an unusual number of consonants.

Bill consults the Mexico map book spread across his lap. “Ignore her,” he says and takes the GPS from its special perch to enter new information.

“That’s not the route we want,” he says with authority. “It will take us out of our way. Keep going straight.”

I keep going straight, but I’m not sure how the GPS feels about being snubbed.

“Recalculating, “she says. Do I detect a little sarcasm? A new route has been established. She would be wise to agree with Bill, the navigator.

I’ll explain. We’re driving back to San Pancho from Chicago, being guided in part by the voice of our new GPS, Global Positioning System. Regardless of the number of times we’ve made this trip, we seem to find new and complicated ways to get lost each time. The GPS is our last, great hope. With our destination firmly set, from point A, Evanston, Illinois, to point B, San Francisco, Nayarit, we have only to set the cruise control and be guided across two countries.

Bill is in geographic love. I don’t trust her. We don’t share unconditional faith in all things electronic.

We manage to get through the U.S. and across the border with a minimum of contradictory information. It’s only when we’re in Mexico that doubts begin to surface. Bill checks the road map against the screen and continually points out the highways, tollways and towns that are missing from view. Where are the motels, restaurants and scenic points of interest? This does little to inspire confidence.

Our four day trip has little diversion; we drive ten to twelve hours a day listening to radio programs in Illinois, Missouri, Arkansas and Texas, more Texas, still Texas, digging out books on CD when our minds are numb from local color.

This year Bill is entertained by his new traveling companion. Second-guessing her keeps him busy whenever he isn’t at the wheel. I, on the other hand, find her less entertaining. Miss GPS needs too much attention. She’s like a petulant girlfriend whom Bill admonishes, while she stubbornly disputes his every word. And besides, she clearly has no soul and cares nothing for our wellbeing on the road.

As opposed to Mexican road signs, I am by struck by how often they worry about us.

The signs caution. “No maneje fatigado,” don’t drive when you’re fatigued or “no maneje cansado,” don’t drive when you’re tired. I like this caring attitude.

“Si toma, no maneje,” If you drink don’t drive. Obvious, maybe. But this message must need repeating and so it is, many times. “Cuando tomas, no maneje, “When you drink, don’t drive. This sounds like a more realistic approach.

We’re reminded to slow down, watch our speed, respect the speed limit, obey the signs, respect the signs, and keep the highway clean. All good suggestions, and we appreciate the reminders.

Most of all, we’re reminded, “Maneje con precaucion, su familia lo espera,” Drive carefully, your family waits for you.

No GPS will tell you that.

Dog Tales

Our housekeeper Irma’s dog, Lincoln, trots behind her as she arrives at our house. He is a fluffy Maltese whose hair is always tinged with road dust. He settles into our garden in the shade of a palm tree to wait for Irma to finish work. If he dares to poke his nose inside the house he will quickly receive a harsh reprimand from Irma.

Arm outstretched, finger pointed, Irma commands “Vete!” “Get out!” And Lincoln will slink back to safety.

“Dogs don’t belong in the house, “she reminds me as if I had invited Lincoln inside.

She knows me. Or, she knows us Americans. We treat our dogs like members of the family; they’re mascotas, pets, and we spoil them. Not so in most Mexican households. Irma and her family love Lincoln, but he lives outside, at times in their yard, but usually in the neighborhood streets.

But Cuchin, who repaired and painted our garden wall last winter, sees things differently from other Mexicans. Most days, he brought his “baby, as he called his dog, with him to work. Cuchin’s “baby,” a tiny Chihuahua, was never far from his father’s loving and watchful eyes. Cuchin was quick to condemn neglectful dog owners. His dogs, he assured us, never left the house without him. Oh - and his other “baby” was a pit bull! Fortunately, Cuchin left him at home.

Dogs hang out all over San Pancho. The majority are thin, their coats dull and matted. Some have injuries from unfriendly encounters with other animals. Most are sadly neglected. Stretched out and snoozing, they are blissfully unaware of traffic or pedestrians detouring around them. Others are in mad pursuit of moving objects, frantically barking, chasing cars, bicycles, horses, and other dogs. Running in a pack, they are formidable, though harmless.

One stray, Suzy, often accompanied Nancy, Ellen and me, uninvited, on our daily hike. She was known about town and survived on the kindness of strangers. But on our hike, Suzy only created chaos. She bounded ahead of us and then stopped right in front of us. She challenged other strays we met along the way to the point of teeth baring conflict. She ran into the path of oncoming trucks. Screeching brakes and our frantic shouts shattered any illusion of a healthy hike. When she disappeared for a few days, we were relieved.

Ellen’s dog, Lola, on the other hand, is Miss Congeniality. Everyone loves her! So when she began to accompany us on our hikes, we welcomed her. Nancy even brought a special doggie water bottle back from the States to keep her well-hydrated. Lola enjoyed our walks at first, waiting impatiently for Ellen in the morning. But soon Lola began to question the wisdom of trekking up and down countless hills. Besides, she missed being the center of attention. We barely noticed her, focusing instead on covering a lot of ground conversationally.

One day as we approached the first hill of the trail, Lola simply sat down and refused to go any further. No more foolish hiking for her. Our cajoling, demanding, or threatening moved her. Unlike Suzy, Lola knew when enough was enough.

Caution: Construction Ahead

When we bought our property in 2001 the lot next door to us was vacant. During the next three years, we built our house and the lot next door to us was still vacant. The owner, a cousin to our housekeeper’s husband and a San Pancho resident, offered to sell it to us every year.

Seven years ago, it was $30,000 USD; then $50,000; then $80,000... We would make an offer, he’d up the price, we would make another offer, and the price would go up again. Eventually we gave up.

Property values are a topic near and dear to the hearts of people in San Pancho. Real estate offices line Avenida Tercer Mundo, the main street in town. Rivera Nayarit, the State of Nayarit’s ambitious resort development plan, is full speed ahead. A bright pink “Cultural Center” (read, sales office) compliments of Lemmus Corporation squats squarely on the new malecon, our ocean-front plaza. Oh, and the new malecon? It was a gift to the town, in part, by another development group!

So, we weren’t completely surprised to hear that we’d be getting our own development right next door. The owner decided not to sell his lot after all, but to build instead. And that’s when the information stream got muddy.

At various times we heard he was building a two- story house with a palapa (thatched palm) roof. We heard he was planning rental units; two units, then four, then six. As is typical in our neighborhood, everyone knew something, and no one really knew anything.

We watched with trepidation as the construction began and the building began to take shape just inches from our garden wall. Every day we’d assess the progress and second guess the design. We could greet the workers each morning by simply stepping out of our kitchen door.

The building’s setback from the street suggested a parking area in the front. That’s good, we thought and we were encouraged. An attractive, well- thought- out apartment building might be just fine.

But then, activity began at the rear of the lot next to our kitchen window. A beautiful shade tree disappeared.

“More building, another apartment?” we asked.

“Yes,” our housekeeper said.

“No,” her husband said, “a laundry room.”

“Which is it?” we asked again. Shoulders shrugged.

When the roof for the first floor was poured we watched in awe as a modern-day concrete truck mixed the concrete and a huge chute completed the pouring in less than three hours.

We waited and waited. Weeks went by. Surely the concrete must be set by now. Work on the second story could begin anytime. But it didn’t. And then we left San Pancho for our trip back to the States.

“What’s happening next door to us?” we incessantly asked in emails to friends.

“Nothing,” they said. “It looks the same as when you left.”

A sense of relief, albeit temporary, prevails. Maybe there won’t be a second floor after all, or a palapa top. Or it won’t be rental units. Who knows? The only given in our burgeoning real estate/construction environment is surprise.

Traveling

It was late, the road was dark, very dark, and it was starting to rain. We’d been driving for more than ten hours and we were exhausted. On our way back to the States from San Pancho, the short cut from Guadalajara to Zacatecas had been a mistake. It had been hours since we’d seen anywhere to stay the night.
Just outside of Saltillo, my husband Bill and I saw the sign flickering in the distance.
“Does that sign say ‘motel’?” he asked me.
“I think it does” I said. “What a relief. And I don’t care what it looks like, we’re stopping!”
I didn’t have to be so emphatic. Bill pulled into the courtyard without hesitation and stopped near the office. We looked around, amazed. The courtyard was softly lit, the music of a fountain, barely audible. We were surrounded by what appeared to be two- story houses, garages on the ground level, apartments above. An office, with large glass window, appeared positioned to provide surveillance similar to air traffic control. A woman from the office approached our car. I got out to greet her.
“Buenas noches, good evening,” I said.
"Buenas noches, good evening Senora.” she replied.
She asked how we were and I asked her as well. She was fine, we were very tired. I asked if she had a room available.
“Por cuanto horas, Senora?” she asked. For how many hours? Hmmm, did I hear that right?
I leaned into the car and repeated the question to Bill. She wants to know how many hours we’d like to have the room. Bill looked at his watch, its 11:00 pm, and did a quick calculation. “Seven or eight, we don’t want to have to leave at dawn,” he said.
Seven or eight hours I suggested.
“Siete o ocho horas, Senora?” she asked in an incredulous tone. I’m puzzled.
“Is this a problem?” I asked.
She shook her head and smiled. No, she assured me and asked for 400 pesos,
“Its forty dollars,” I said.
“Fine, tell her its fine.” He handed me the money.
She pointed to a garage just behind us, number 3, and motioned to us to back up. Signaling to someone in the office, the garage door opened, and we pulled inside. The automatic door slid down silently.
We both got out and looked around as if we had just executed a moon landing. From all indications, we were still earthbound; it was just a garage. We walked toward the spiral staircase that was directly ahead of us and flipped a wall switch which sent soft lighting upward toward the door at the top.
We entered a room which could only be described as a bed with a room around it. It was king-size and then some. Directly across from the bed was a panoramic mirror bordered by light bulbs reminiscent of a Hollywood marquee.
"This is amazing," I said, staring at the furnishings. Bill was wandering around the room. He picked up the menu on the dresser.
"Look, they have snacks, beer and wine." he said. Reading the menu over his shoulder, I noted, "mostly beer and wine."
"And it arrives via this little dumbwaiter," he said, demonstrating the way the order would arrive.
"They've thought of everything,” I added, waving the condoms that I'd discovered were on the night table and in the bathroom.
Admittedly, we were tired. But it took us awhile to put it all together. The room rental by the hour, the closed, secure parking, the mirrored wall and enormous bed, the dumbwaiter; we’d have a good night’s rest in one of Mexico’s famous “no-tell” motels.

The Sounds of San Pancho

I miss the roosters,” my sister emailed me the morning after she returned from her trip to San Pancho. “It’s too quiet here in Northbrook.”

I laughed when I read her message. She had surprised me throughout her stay. In anticipation of her first visit here I was certain that she’d be packing her bags after one night of the local commotion. My brother-in-law would be okay; I reasoned he could just take out his hearing aids, but my sister?

“It’s charmingly noisy here” is my caveat before they and all visitors arrive.

“What do you mean?” they ask.

I explain, stressing the picturesque. “Life in San Pancho is a symphony of sound.” The neighborhood roosters, goats and horses express themselves all day and through the night. Children’s voices mingle with music from classic Mexican favorites, to rock and rap. The raucous bandas, from which there is no escape, play salsa and cumbia with the bass so loud walls throughout the neighborhood reverberate with its rhythm, until
4:00 am. We have barking dogs, howling cats, and blaring stereos from cars and trucks without mufflers. With confidence, I tell everyone, “After a day or two, you won’t notice it. It will just be background noise.” And for us, it’s true. I hope they will be as surprised and charmed as we are.

Daily, a small pick up truck brings warm tortillas and winds it way through the streets, announcing itself with several loud honks of its horn. More pickups pass, throughout the day, their scratchy recordings and megaphone-distorted voices describing to the “ama de casa, the lady of the house,” their offerings of vegetable and fruits, fresh fish and shrimp.

“Traemos camarones, a cien pesos. We bring shrimp, for 100 pesos,” goes the call of the shrimp supplier.

You find yourself humming along with the singsong melody played by the propane truck.
“Ya, llego Sonigas, el buen gas. Arriving now is Sonigas. The good gas,” the propane jingle plays.

And there’s more. Should you need a sink or toilet, new kitchen chairs, a large sheet of glass or flowers for your garden, be patient! There is nothing too large, too small or too unwieldy not to be loaded onto the back of a truck and hauled past your house.

Our poor unsuspecting visitors! Should I tell them, too, about the soccer matches played in the nearby field? I could share the excitement of Mexico’s national pastime, and tell them about San Pancho’s fine “campo de futbol, soccer field.” which lies below our house. “You can practically see the soccer from our roof,” I say. They can also hear the announcer, the cheering crowd and the celebrations that follow long into the night.

But the charm of the racket can be a tough sell. As much as we love having friends and family visit, we’ve learned that as delightful as the audio portion of San Pancho may be for some, others, our own son Steve included, found the charm wearing thin quickly. After his first night, Steve appeared bleary-eyed at breakfast. He looked stunned.

“How do you stand it?” he asked. “How do you get any sleep? Now I understand why you have a siesta,” he said. “You must be exhausted by noon.”

The deal-breaker for Steve was the parrot next door. The bird was relentless, incessantly squawking the family member’s names, “Miguel, Miguel, Paula, Paula.” The parrot has since moved but our son has yet to schedule another visit.

What we’ve learned from Steve’s experience is to set fresh earplugs and a white noise machine next to the guest bed. And on Friday nights, when the shrill whistle of the sweet potato vendor splits the air, we just smile.