Listen to the Music; Learn Spanish

Beto Gonzalez and Carlos Gonzalez

Beto, Sandra’s husband, and Carlos, their 20-something son, were playing their guitars and singing as husband Skip and I savored a Sandra’s Restaurant specialty, spicy shrimp with rice and plantains. “Pregúntale,” Beto crooned during each chorus of one melancholy song. With the tune and the phrase still replaying in my head the next day, I consulted my copy of “501 Spanish Verbs.” “Pregúntale” means “ask him.”

“Ask him what?” I wondered. So next time we ate at Sandra’s I requested the song, and tried to grasp a few more Spanish words. “…porque me ha robado todo.” Another look at the “501”: “Ask him why he has robbed me of everything.”

Gratified by my interest in their music, Beto and Carlos picked up their guitars and plugged in the microphone each time Skip and I ate at Sandra’s. Sometimes we were the only patrons, so there was time to chat about the songs. They knew a little English, I knew a little Spanish, we all liked the music -- it worked. They had learned many songs from CD’s, so if I really liked a song, I bought the CD and tried to translate the lyrics into English.

As someone who thinks it’s fun to read a Spanish-English dictionary, this process seemed like a game to me. Translating is easier, I discovered, if I can see the lyrics in writing, so now I buy CD’s accompanied by the little booklets with lyrics. Romance, lost love, nostalgia for a favorite horse or the old hometown -- I learn a lot of new words and enjoy Mexican music for its own sake.

Our five-day car trips between San Pancho and Connecticut have provided long stretches of time for song translation. Since I am always the passenger (Skip insists on doing the driving), I am free to browse through my “501” and my Spanish-English dictionary, always handy in the side pocket of the car door. On one trip I translated “Ojalá Que Te Vaya Bonito” (“I Hope It Goes Well For You”), a ranchera tune popularized by the legendary Vicente Fernández. “An excellent selection for practicing the subjunctive,” my Spanish-speaking, musical son, Ian, tells me.

Vicente Fernández is probably the favorite ranchera singer of most Mexicans, and he’s my favorite too. If there’s a Mexican equivalent of Hank Williams and Frank Sinatra, rolled into one, he’s the man. So when he performed at Madison Square Garden in New York City, I had to go. Singing along with several thousand Mexicans, basking in Mexican culture, I had an unforgettable evening. When I got back to San Pancho, I couldn’t wait to tell Beto and Carlos all about it.

It's Only Paint

I was already pretty brave when it came to color. “It’s only paint,” I would always say. But moving to Mexico has made me fearless. Because here, under our relentless tropical sun, anything goes. Susan painted the exterior of her house morning glory purple. Silvino painted his cerulean blue. A neighbor on the beach picked persimmon red.

So I felt free to paint a kitchen in banana-leaf green and a dining room in cobalt blue. Windows and doors I trimmed in fuchsia, as vivid as the bougainvillea that line the driveway and coat it with falling blossoms during afternoon sea breezes.

I call it banana-leaf green because that was the model used by the guy at the Comex paint store. It was friend Carolyn’s idea. “Cut a leaf and pick a shade within it for him to mix.”

Talavera tiles, in patterns centuries old, also model colors I like to imitate---terra cotta orange, egg yolk yellow, turquoise blue. My daughter Nen, a fine arts major-cum-home renovator in northern California, laughs about her clients who ask for a vibrant “Tuscan” or “Mediterranean” look. “That’s code for Mexican,” she says.

I Brake For Folk Art

I am addicted to collecting folk art. I try to fight it. Whenever a new home or room comes within my purview, I do try to preserve some zen-like simplicity. Then I think, "Just one special piece, one spot of color and all the rest taupe or oatmeal or white." But soon it’s, "If one ceramic devil in a car looks good, perhaps six devils in vans, helicopters, and buses would be even better." Mexico doesn’t do zen and neither do I.

Ah, the siren call of the great art towns and villages—Tonala, Tzintzuntzan, Ocumicho, Teotihuacan del Valle, Capula… I get the itch at least once a year to make the rounds of my favorites and look for new villages where, one has heard, trees of life, embroidered blouses, ceramic pineapples or corn husk flowers can be found. My folk art collection is packed on every flat surface, and clusters on the verticals as well. Nor can I resist duplicating the wild colors on walls, columns, cushions and painted furniture.
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Now I have a new house to decorate. San Pancho, on the coast, is hot in the summer, but very close by, the mountains beckon. My husband and I are finishing a house in mile-high San Sebastian where summers sometimes involve a fire in the fireplace. The house has a colonial look and the riotous color of the coast won’t do. The living room is plastered with adobe—a Ralph Laurenesque grey-brown. It has dark wood bookshelves and shutters and the ceiling has wooden beams. This time would be different, I told myself. Folk art, of course, but subdued. A darkish painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe with a bemused smile and a copper shrine with heavy patina filled with dried brown roses. I ordered sofas in “moleskin.” The sample looked almost identical to the walls. They would be ready in six weeks and I went looking for my accent pieces. Just a touch of red.

I found an old wedding chest from Guerrero painted a dull cherry, and embroidered pillows for the sofas in reds, oranges and greens. I considered a rug with lots of red from Oaxaca, from the weaving village that sent rugs as tribute to the Aztec emperors, but I held off. This time I wasn’t getting carried away, remember?

Six weeks passed and passed again, and the sofas were not ready. Guests came and went, and there were no sofas to sit on. Finally the call came just before we were to leave on a trip. Two quick runs from Puerto Vallarta to San Sebastian were needed to transport the furniture on top of our car. Fortunately the pieces were well wrapped and protected and we left them that way to keep them clean.

When we returned three weeks later, I tore the first hole in the wrapping. The fabric was bright cranberry red. Oh, I knew it. Consider that the sales slip had said: Modela Sala Rojo—Color Moleskin. Yes, we’d worried but had been breezily assured several times that Rojo(Red) was just the model name. I called the store to complain.
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“Moleskin? Isn’t that a reddish color?” the sales girl said.

I contemplated how much longer I’d have to live without sofas to get the color right. Eventually, I unwrapped them and brought out the pillows. The combination was intense. It was Mexican. Might as well go with that Oaxacan rug. Maybe a devil in a red truck, too.

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.

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.

Living With Tlaquaches

My husband and I hadn't been in San Pancho long when we came upon an opossum clinging to a tree on our property. It had very scruffy grey-brown fur, a naked tail, cruel beady eyes and a mouthful of little teeth which it showed with a grin and a hiss. This animal had no charm whatsoever. Our Mexican neighbor was with us when we made the discovery.

“Tlaquache,” he said, and before we knew what was happening he had rushed home and returned with a worn .22 caliber rifle which looked as if it had seen the revolution. Mexicans, I believe, cannot legally own firearms, but it appears real men have them hidden away somewhere. Point blank he shot it. The animal made no sound or protest; it simply dropped. He hauled it up by the tail.

“Do you want it?” he politely inquired. We graciously permitted him to take it home to his stew pot.

That wasn’t the end of the tlaquaches. A couple of times after our seasonal absences, I have found nests built under bedside tables. Now and again one saunters across the patio, but they are shy and careful. Apparently they don't like the looks of us either.

One year we returned from our summer sojourn in New Mexico to find our bathroom full of flies and a smell which we took to be a sewer issue. Investigation revealed the flies to be coming from under the bathtub which had an opening in the tiled surround in case the plumbing should go wrong. What had gone wrong was that a tlaquache had gone in there and died. Jonathan pulled out the remains with a hooked piece of rebar. Actually it's not entirely unfair that men rule the world.

Another year, another tlaquache. Night after night we awoke as it scrabbled across our bedroom; there was no door to prevent its entry since our bedroom is a thatched pavilion. We reluctantly listened as it climbed and shook the lime tree and proceeded to click, yes, click, about once a second. A mating call, I’ve since learned. Jonathan would locate the tlaquache with the flashlight and it would freeze. Awake, annoyed and finding nothing erotic in the clicks, he began to fantasize its demise. His plan was to immobilize it with the flashlight and do it in with a length of pipe which he procured and put under the bed. We were never to know if he would actually go through with this mayhem because, though an opportunity soon presented itself, a certain caution required that first he put on his pants. While he was hopping into his pants legs, trying to keep the flashlight steady and get a hold of the pipe, the tlaquache unfroze and disappeared. In fact, Jonathan’s terrifying display scared it away for the rest of the year.

Last month I came running when I heard Jonathan roar from the bathroom. A tlaquache had walked in while he was showering. He said it looked like it had a full pouch. I can only hope it is the one which learned last year that Jonathan is not to be trifled with.

A Little Night Music

For centuries Mexico was a land in deep depression. It was no help that early religions were all too interested in human sacrifice or that the conquering Spanish enslaved the population, introduced diseases that killed millions, and brought over the Inquisition for good measure. The mood was not lifted by factional wars which raged around the country for well over a hundred years, or by the humiliating loss of California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas to the northern neighbor. Nevertheless, I suspect that the root cause of the depression was that amplified sound had not yet been invented. Gracias á Dios, this boon to Mexican happiness has now penetrated into every pueblo, and happy little San Pancho has an extra measure.

Our first Christmas here (and very nearly our last) was marked by a powerful demonstration of this gift of Very Loud Sound. On the stroke of midnight, at the moment of the Santo Niño’s birth, there rang out over San Pancho the ear-splitting and sleep-shattering sounds of music from speakers hauled up to our highest hill. This might have been moving if it had been the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” or “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” but, no, it was the same Ricky Martin tape that was the run away favorite that year. And it played over and over for a full twelve hours. Mr. and Mrs. Grinch lay aghast with pillows over our heads and in the morning went out to see what the neighbors thought. They loved it.

“En México somos libres,” our friend Hillaria likes to say. In Mexico we are free. Free from interference from those gringos who might have peculiar ideas about sound pollution, that’s for sure. And we know our status. Guests don’t complain—except to the other guests. It seems we never tire of trying to convince each other that we each live in the noisiest part of town.

It has taken my husband and me some years to adjust to what is one of the great cultural differences between the two sides of the border, especially when that difference expresses itself at night. Years—and earplugs close to hand.

Our neighbor over the back wall went through a rough patch a few years back. Every Friday and Saturday for four or five months he went out and drank until the 2 AM closing at the local cantina, came home, comforted himself with boom box at full volume, and passed out. Certainly that was the scene when, driven to desperation, my husband finally went over to ask him to damp it just a bit.

“Wow, he was cooperative,” I said as my husband crawled back into bed, a lovely silence all around.

“The door was open and all the lights blazing. I just went in and turned it off. He never moved,” he said wearily.

This gave us an idea. We knew his electric line led to a somewhat informal connection beside that of our next door neighbor and that the breaker was just over our wall. When the music jolted us awake, we would give him a couple of minutes and then go and flick the breaker. The electricity was only briefly interrupted but the tape player shut off. He never once turned it back on. We knew this was violating his freedom to have music whenever and however he wanted and we felt very guilty about it right up until we floated back to sleep. Please don’t tell.