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.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

My husband and I recently attended one of the Hay Festivals. In 2010-2011 they are being held in Wales, Cartagena, Beiruit, Kerala, Nairobi, the Maldives, Belfast, Segovia and Zacatecas—conveniently located about nine hours away from our summer home in San Sebastian. Writers, musicians, film makers, scientists, and social entrepreneurs talk, play, screen and inspire; Bill Clinton called it “the Woodstock of the mind.”

The festival was a brilliant experience and the romance of the city couldn’t be missed. A lecture might be held in the Antiguo Templo de San Augustin or in the partially ruined nave of the ex-convento which now houses the Museo Rafael Coronel with it’s collection of 1600 Mexican masks. The open-air concerts, and what perfect high altitude summer air it was, were held in a plaza created by a cluster of colonial jewels. Our hotel, formerly a bishop’s palace, had displayed Morelos’ severed head for two weeks on its tour of Mexico during the Revolution. Other historical sites, templos, museos and ex-conventos crowd the small Centro; we tried to see them all.

At the of the other Coronel brother, Pedro, one of Mexico’s most noted twentieth century artists, the visitor enters through a library. Once belonging to the ex-convento that houses the museum, the library is a grand room, perhaps seventy feet long with sixteen- or eighteen-foot ceilings and high windows set in the thick walls. The upper reaches of the shelves are lost in the dim light and are packed with leather-bound and gold-tooled volumes. We immediately began to see treasures—first editions of Bernal Diaz’s history of the conquest of Mexico and of Prescott’s conquest history in Spanish translation. As other museum goers passed through the library and on to the rest of the collection, we were riveted, exclaiming over and examining every shelf until the distinguished old librarian offered to let us see whatever book we wanted. He extracted whatever we asked for, bringing it to the lectern on the little desk beneath the window and turning the pages for us with his gloved hands.

Then he offered to show us the rest of the library. We passed through a black-curtained arch into another room, even larger, at a right angle to the first, taking up the entire side of the former convent. This room, the librarian explained, contained books from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Every one was bound in parchment, discolored and crinkled, with hand-scribed titles on the spines in red and black ink. Then a third room along the back of the convent. Here were books with balsa wood covers and brilliantly marbled end papers, dictionaries, atlases, a facsimile of the Mendocino Codex, one of the few Aztec codices to survive the Spanish bonfires.

All that was a dream experience, but then this: Write out a solicitud, a request, go to the pharmacy and buy a left-over swine flu mask and latex gloves and all this was mine for the examining. I did it. Just another couple of hours, I assured Jonathan, but it took an extra day in Zacatecas before I tore myself away. Ask me what items and how much of them Montezuma received in tribute each year and what a parchment-bound Vulgate Bible feels like, book worm trails and all. I saw a collection of photos (not prints of photos) of Mexican churches taken by Frida Khalo’s father, an engraved map of Mexico City and surrounds when it was in the middle of the lake and reached by causeways and fifteenth century stories of the missionaries who brought Christianity to Ethiopia. I could go on.

One isn’t trusted around rare books in the US. I once (barely) got into the stacks of the Yale University Library even though supervised by my daughter who had access as a student. And the really old and valuable stuff isn’t there anyway, it’s over in the Rare Book and Manuscript Library and you aren’t getting in there without a letter of introduction from your academic advisor. Zacatecas is a good place to be reminded of how pleasant a society Mexico can be.

A San Pancho Grande Dame

In 1986, Gloria and Ken Hanson built the first home in the San Pancho jungle area called Costa Azul. After searches in Guatemala and the West Indies plus advice from friends in La Peñita, they visited Costa Azul.

Four bungalows owned by the Becerra brothers were all they found. In town, Chalupa’s was the only restaurant, and no shops had opened as yet. A perfect spot, they thought, for tranquil annual getaways from work and winter in home base Sioux Falls, South Dakota. For eighteen years they made the round trip trek in their van.

Ken, a native of Sioux Falls, had been a young U.S. Air Force and later Pan Am pilot when he met seventeen-year old Gloria, also a pilot as well as daughter of a Guatemalan politico. They fell in love and married, a marriage of 67 years that ended with Ken’s death in 2004.

Gloria continues on as the Grande Dame of Costa Azul, living in her striking home. She describes it as “old Mexican style,” referring to palapa-covered open-air porches filled with equipal furniture, parota(Mexican mahogany) woodwork, traditional talavera tiling, and white-walled rooms cooled by sea breezes blowing through doors left open to them. Gloria remembers the construction well and spoke with me about it as we sat on her front porch.

Gloria: “Little or nothing was available in town back then, and Adalberto Garcia, our builder, didn’t have his own vehicle at first. We took our van and went with him to buy bricks and cement in La Peñita. We had to buy everything in La Peñita and haul it back---rebar, lime, screws, string, you name it. And we had to drive to Guadalajara for tile. We made countless trips, as you can see from the kitchen and the bathrooms coated in talavera. ”

Ellen: “Supplies are still relatively limited or prohibitively expensive. What was available to you back then, for example, things like light fixtures, faucets, and doorknobs?”

Gloria: “We brought a lot of them down from South Dakota. We even packed in a refrigerator, a stove, and a couple of mattresses on one of our first trips. We didn’t have many furniture choices back then either, but Ken came up with the design for a rocking chair and made dozens of them himself in his workshop next to the house. You’re sitting in one right now.”

Ellen: “How about construction workers and household help? Were there townspeople for hire?

Gloria: “A few. Adalberto was good and could train his crew on the basics, but he had never built a house this big or complex before. So Ken had to be vigilant and do a lot of training and explaining.

As for household help, Güero has been my gardener and handyman since 1986. Alicia has cooked and cleaned here for 18 years. Her son, Luis, has been with me almost that long.“

Ellen: “That speaks to their loyalty and your fair treatment. I can speak to Alicia’s fabulous meals. It’s such a treat to be invited to your house for lunch. It’s comfortable and genteel at the same time, sitting at your elegantly set table, taking in the view of your garden and the sea beyond, being served by your staff.”

Gloria: “You’re always welcome here; you know that.“

Ellen: “I know that you have taught Alicia to make a lot of new dishes over the years to add to her repertoire of traditional Mexican favorites. Do you have a set menu?”

Gloria: “Yes, we have developed a menu we like. And everything is homemade, of course---even the ice cream. Saturday is and always has been pizza day. Other days Alicia makes chicken in white wine sauce, creole coconut shrimp, chiles rellenos, enchiladas, and her special mole. Along with rice, beans, and salad. For dessert, cappuccinos, espressos, and sundaes with fresh fruit. But we try new things, too, like the meatloaf we’ll be serving you today.”

Ellen: “Yet look at you, so chic and trim. You’re the fittest eighty-something woman I know. How do you manage, faced with such delicious daily fare?”

Gloria: “You know the answer. You used to join me for an hour of water aerobics in my pool. A couple of other women friends come over now. Plus I do Pilates every day, too.. And Robert still comes every Friday to give me a massage. That really helps me.

It’s not just the exercise, though. It’s the life style here---the peace, the lack of scheduling, the long reads in the afternoon, the good night’s sleep. It’s healthy. It’s the life style that attracted Ken and me to San Pancho in the first place and that hasn’t changed much over all these years here.”

(Author’s note: Gloria broke a hip recently and has undergone surgery. My sincerest best wishes to her for a speedy recovery.)

CASA HANSON MEATLOAF

2 lb. ground beef

1 c. bread crumbs

1 small onion, diced

2 eggs, beaten

¼ c. catsup

¼ c. milk

2 T. salsa verde

1 T. Worcestershire sauce

2 t. salt

1 t. black pepper

Combine all. Bake at 350 degrees for 50 minutes.

Corazón de Agave

The Pinot Noir my husband is making in San Sebastian needed time in an oak barrel for its finish. He ordered one from a cooper in Tequila and we combined the pick up with touring visitors around the sights. It is a beauty, the barrel, 200 liters, 50 gallons or so, bearing the name of our winery, Las Fincas. The oak comes from Kentucky. If it’s good enough for Mexican tequila it’s good enough for Mexican wine, we say. Besides, I heard they’re cutting down the forest of Fontainebleau outside of Paris for that precious French oak.

Visitors in tow, we toured the Herradura tequila factory. The cores of agave azul, called piñas for their resemblance to a pineapple, are roasted and pressed, the juice fermented and distilled. One always is treated to a taste of the roasted piña on such tours—delicious, smoky-sweet and very fibrous. You are reminded that alcohol comes from sugar. The agave has plenty.

Down the road we stopped by a little table where half a roasted piña was laid out for sale. We were offered the ends of the cut-off spears which were mahogany dark and roasted to caramel perfection. We separated the sweet stuff from the fibers with our teeth just as you’d get the meat off an artichoke leaf. We had already made out purchase when, seemingly as an after-thought, the seller offered us a sample from the piña’s center, its heart, its corazón. It was firmer than the heart of an artichoke but similarly smooth, no fibers. It was even more delicious than the spear ends. We were ravished. I bought a large wedge and began to brain-storm recipes.

First came pork loin cooked and sauced in corazón de agave. In my test kitchen, also known as my kitchen, I wrapped the pork in the fibrous spear-ends, encased it in foil and roasted it slowly. Fibers were strained out, sweetened juices reduced and mellowed with cream, cubes of corazón heated and served beside the meat. Oh, boy.

Then there was corazón de agave pecan pie. I heated two cups of corazón bits with a cup of orange juice and thickened it with flour. Some orange zest for that little edge. After the mixture cooled, I blended it with three beaten eggs and lightly-roasted pecans, poured it into a pie shell and baked it for an hour. Served with cream, it was better than mincemeat.

Now friends are in the act. Lorena made corazón de agave ice cream. Canela proposed mashing it and serving it instead of yams beside the Thanksgiving turkey. Imagine chunks in capirotada, Mexican bread pudding. Feel free.

Miguel and His Murals

The hand painted sign at the entrance to Los Arcos restaurant caught my eye the first time I visited San Pancho: “Nice design,” I thought. “A detail that sets the place apart.” That sign was Miguel’s first project in San Pancho, and now his work is all over town: His mural at the beachfront plaza depicts San Pancho’s history; a huge hibiscus blossom embellishes a satellite dish; Art Deco beauties grace a restaurant wall. You don’t see work like his in every Mexican village.

Miguel Angel Vallajan Estrella was born in 1972 in San Juan de Abajo, about 20 miles from San Pancho. When he was six, his family moved to San Pancho because his parents found work here – his father as a gardener at the junior high school and his mother as a cook at the hospital. Miguel finished ninth grade in San Pancho, and then started high school in La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, the location of the nearest high school at the time.

“I had to drop out when I was 14,” he told me. “I took the bus to La Cruz every day, and it was too expensive for my family. I needed to work, so an uncle in Puerto Vallarta helped me get a job varnishing furniture for hotels. I did that during the day, and at night I went to a taller (an artisan’s workshop) to learn how to paint letters and decorative designs. I didn’t get paid, and I had to buy the paints myself, but I loved what I was doing. I guess I showed ability, because the owner asked me to paint signs for a hotel when I was 15.”

At 18 Miguel opened his own taller in Puerto Vallarta . Business was good, and at one point he had three people working for him. They got big commissions—the Sheraton Hotel, the Collage nightclub— for signs, lettering, drawings and murals. During those years Miguel made frequent bus trips back to San Pancho to visit his family, and on one trip he met Julia, a young woman from the village. They became friends, and after three years they married. Miguel and Julia now have three daughters and a baby grandson.

About 10 years ago business in Puerto Vallarta began to slow down because graphic design had shifted to computer-based processes. Dar Peters, a San Pancho builder, told Miguel he could give him steady work, and persuaded Miguel to move back to the village. Since then Miguel and his helpers have done regular house painting, but his first love is still signs and graphic designs. Besides work in San Pancho Miguel does special projects for the county government, such as murals in village plazas throughout the Bahia de Banderas area.

Paint stores may have computerized color matching, but they can’t outdo Miguel’s infallible eye. Choosing paint colors with him is a pleasure. Should the color of a wall be taupe, mushroom, sand or beige? Miguel mixes up a sample on the spot, paints a swath, and we study the result. Not quite right? He mixes another sample, and we try again. With no sign of impatience Miguel spends as long as it takes to get the color right.

Boring expanses of stucco are transformed under his hand. In our house a 20-foot high wall towers at one side of the dining room, and we wanted to bring the huge mass down to human scale. Our idea: divide the wall in half lengthwise with two colors of paint and add a decorative border. Working from photos we took in a 19th century Mexican church, Miguel came up with a design that solved the problem perfectly. And he did everything freehand—no stencils or computer graphics.

Unfailingly polite, quiet, and a little shy, Miguel’s work gives him the right to brag, but he never does. He is a modest man. And one who has added touches of artistry to the face of San Pancho.

Barefoot in the Kitchen

The first time a scorpion stung me, it was almost a relief. My being stung seemed all but inevitable, given the number of stories my jungle neighbors told about their encounters with the bug. I was anxious to get it over with, just so I’d know how my body would react.

I got my answer early one morning while walking barefoot into the kitchen. A piecing pain suddenly shot through the big toe on my right foot. I turned on a light, saw the scorpion on the floor, and bolted for the bathroom where I had stashed a bottle of antihistamines with this occasion in mind. After gulping a couple of the pills, I sat and waited for a reaction.

It was a short wait. In a matter of seconds, beginning with my now hot and throbbing big toe, the pain rolled up my right side like a wave and left nerves numb in its wake. I felt nauseous. My throat constricted but only slightly. Not enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. Besides, that might have meant missing our “girls’ weekend” in Guadalajara; a friend was picking me up in an hour.

I wobbled a bit the first day of that shopping trip. But three days religiously swilling liquids and I bounced back. Three months later, I regained feeling in the big toe.

Since then I’ve been stung twice more. The third time I acquiesced to my children who told me I looked green and drove me to the hospital, where seasoned staff put me on an antivenin IV drip.

“We do this routinely,” they said. “Don’t hesitate because you think your case isn’t serious. We rarely see a case that is. Just come in; you’ll appreciate the quick relief.”

Two hours and 250 pesos later, I walked out feeling fine. My kids were right; that’s the way to go, I now advise. That and don’t go barefoot, not even in the kitchen.

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…