A Nasty Week; Happy to Be Here

I haven't posted for awhile. It's just been one of those months. Topped of by a week that I'd gracefully describe as one of the most stressful I've had in some time.

Details aren't important, but it's been sort of like this...

I have been waiting for Immigration (Instituto Nacional de Migración) to approve and deliver my new permanent resident visa, which I must possess in order to leave and return to Mexico. In January and February I have met with the same friendly and helpful personnel in Migración who've annually processed my paperwork. I have had no problems with the process. It's just that this year they are working under brand new federal laws, and the system has slowed down somewhat while they implement new procedures.

Since the new visa was in process, I've been putting off a planned February visit to the States to see my elderly father. Finally a week ago when I found I would not have my new resident visa ID card for a couple more weeks, I decided to apply for a special letter of permission that will allow me to leave and return in lieu of my regular visa. This involved going in at 7:00AM a couple of mornings this week to be near the front of line when Migración opens its doors at 9:00AM.

At the same time I've had some business dealings go awry. A check I received and deposited was returned due to a spelling error, causing me technically to default on a payment I'd promised to make the following day. Resolving this problem necessitated consultations with my lawyer, careful diplomacy with the person to whom I'd promised the money, various visits, calls and emails to banks, and jumps through a few other hoops. It's all working out, but it has been time-consuming, tiring and stressful, because of the need to resolve all the problems by Friday or end up paying out quite a bit in losses and fees.

And I have a ticket to go see Dad on Monday. He's been expecting me for a month.

To slather sour icing on this already-rotten cake, I ate something that disagreed with me Sunday night, and have slogged all this week through a dense haze of fever, lethargy and nausea. Being stubborn and thinking I'd deal with it on my own (not to mention being really busy), I waited a couple of days to see the doctor. I could not sleep and became dehydrated; instead of feeling better, as all this transpired I felt steadily worse.

There was a lot more, but that's the basic outline. It's been a pretty nasty week, truthfully. But it looks as if I've made it.

The good news is that when finally I called my doctor he saw me within the hour, and two hours after my call I was back home, medicated, and on the road to recovery.

And this morning after my last meeting, knowing now that everything is on the right track, I went home for a break. I threw off the shoes and business costume and stepped into the garden. The sky was bright blue and the morning breeze was warm but not yet hot. Heliconias are in full bloom as are some orchids. I thought gratefully about several Mérida people who stepped in this week to help me feel better, smooth over problems and make it all work out.

And I felt very happy to be here.

The House and Garden Tour, From the Inside

Brent Marsh (center) leads a House and Garden Tour

I've never been the type who wanted to live in an Architectural Digest sort of house. So when my friend and real estate agent Jennifer Lytle approached me recently about putting my place on the Mérida English Language Library House and Garden Tour, I was a bit reluctant.

This tour affords the curious an opportunity to peek inside interesting homes within walking distance of the English Library in Mérida centro. The fee charged goes to support library programs. Most of the tour-goers are foreigners visiting the area, and many are considering living here at least part of the time.

My problem with throwing open the doors was that my house, even after nine years, remains unfinished. There are windows without glass, cabinets without doors, and the whole second story is only half-completed. The facade has not been repaired in decades and occasionally little chunks of it rain down onto the sidewalk. Stuffing pops out of furniture cushions. Nothing is really done.

To make matters worse, since the first phase of the renovation was completed six years ago, much that was finished, nicely painted, shiny and new back then is now peeling, a bit rusty or otherwise weather- and time-worn. The house is very comfortable, but in its current condition it is not a candidate for any design or decorating awards. And since that sort of thing is not an interest of mine, I doubt it ever will be. I do not worry about a little peeling paint or falling plaster here and there. These things happen to an antique house in the tropics. I am not about to dedicate an excessive amount of my time to maintaining my home in picture-perfect condition.

I have never been on the tour, but am aware that many of the homes included feature award-winning architecture and are among the most elegant and well-appointed in Mérida. I just wasn't sure my unfinished home,  set up more for comfort and convenience rather than impact, would fit with the program. But Jennifer convinced me that visitors would be interested in seeing a place that is "lived in."

So last Tuesday they came. There were about twenty on the tour, enough to make my ample front sala feel a bit cramped when they'd all gotten inside.

It was obvious that most of the tour-goers had done a little homework or visited other homes in the area. Mostly they asked specific, practical questions about the ins and outs of fixing up an old house in Mérida. Many were interested in materials not so commonly seen north of the border, things such as polished concrete floors and poured countertops and the variety of tiles and stone used in finishes. Some loved the copper sinks and basins from Michoacan. Others had questions about gardening and plants.

I even met a couple of readers of this blog.

It was an appreciative group, and I found it interesting to view my home through their eyes. Once again I was reminded of how fortunate I am to live in this place.

Living Here: Cool, Cool Water

Swimming at my house is not the same as it was a month or more ago. The water in the pool is cooling rapidly.

I notice this situation each fall. Around the equinox in late September, abruptly the sun is far enough south that the tall trees in my neighbors' yards shade the pool for a good part of the day. Without benefit of the warming afternoon sun, within a couple of weeks the water temperature has plummeted.

During this season I still get in the pool, but instead of an extended, soothing, leisurely soak, now the experience is brisk. If I need a little help waking up in the morning, I know exactly what to do. A brief plunge accomplishes the task. I often take these morning wake-up dips with a steaming cup of coffee on hand. Poolside cold drinks are out of the question for the next few months.

Gone for a while are the relaxing afternoon or evening "floats," when I hover between the earth and sky on a cushion of warm water and observe nature, or snooze. I'll miss those tranquil, meditative moments and the calm but energized way I feel when I leave the water afterward.

Swims for the time being are quicker, more active affairs. My pool is not long enough to allow me to get up any momentum swimming laps, but I kick energetically, dive like a seal, and tread water for exercise. It is reported that there can be health benefits to plunging or swimming in cold water. All I know is that when the pool is cool I feel invigorated when I get out.

Either way, whether the water is warm or cool, a little pool time makes me feel good.

A side benefit of the cool months in Yucatán is that pool maintenance is easier. That's because algae that sometimes grow on pool sides and bottom reproduce much more slowly in cool water. Microorganisms and bacteria that cloud water are in the same boat. I use less chemicals and work less often at keeping the pool clean during the cool season.

I continue to swim in all but the chilliest weather. Normally there are times from December into February when I don't swim much at all. It just seems too cold. It's funny to remember how I participated in the Polar Bear Swim in the Chukchi Sea at Barrow, Alaska some years ago. That day we splashed and swam amidst large chunks of ice. On the coldest Yucatecan winter days, my Mérida pool water would seem absolutely tropical by comparison.


Read another post on enjoying the water here.

Living Here: The Power of Relationships

One of the most satisfying aspects of Mexican culture, to those integrated enough to appreciate it, is the nature and power of personal relationships. A while ago I was strongly reminded of this.

One rainy afternoon I was far from home, riding a combi van in the countryside, when I received a desperate call. "I have been accused of something terrible. This could land me in prison. Please come help."

That was all he said. It could have been the weak cell phone connection, but it sounded as if my good friend Juan may have been crying. Then I heard background noises and abruptly the call was disconnected.

I had an idea of what the issue was because Juan recently had mentioned a very uncomfortable situation in which he had haplessly and unavoidably become involved. The accusation against my kind, honest and gentle friend was ludicrous; it appeared he was being made a scapegoat.

I had no choice. I got off the combi at the next town and boarded another that started me on an overnight journey back to Mérida.

The next day was a Friday, and soon after I arrived home, Juan and I sat down at my kitchen table to figure out what to do. It was obvious that he needed the advice of a lawyer, so I made a list of people I knew who might refer me to someone trustworthy.

On the top of my list was Diego, an attorney whom I'd gotten to know some years before when we'd been in a class together. I deeply respect Diego's integrity. I'd socialized occasionally with him and his wife back then, but to be honest had not done much to maintain the friendship over the years. So although I knew Diego was my best bet, I was a little reluctant to call him out of the blue and ask for help. But the situation was urgent. Juan needed to be informed about his rights, he needed support and a plan, and he needed these things by Monday. I rang Diego's cell number and left a message. Then I started communicating with other contacts on my list.

I had almost given up on Diego when he rang the next day. He apologized profusely for not calling me back sooner, explaining that he and his wife were out of the country and not able to check messages frequently. But he told me to call one of his associates in Mérida and gave me a cell phone number.

I called. The attorney interviewed Juan over the phone for about an hour and finally asked him, "can you come down to the office in about fifteen minutes? I'm the criminal specialist, but we've got several issues here and I want to bring in another associate."

The reception area and halls of the law office were dark, hot and stuffy. It seemed that Diego's law partner had opened up on a Saturday afternoon just for us. After we'd talked for a bit in an air-conditioned office, the other attorney arrived. They proceeded to spend two hours asking questions, discussing points of law, drafting documents and developing a strategy to help Juan resolve his problem. They were serious and professional, but also cracked the occasional joke to keep the atmosphere from getting too heavy. They put us at ease. I liked them both.

When we were wrapping up, the attorneys offered their cell phone numbers to Juan, with a reminder that he could call "24 hours a day" in case of new developments or if he had questions.

I asked if we needed to set up a billing account with the firm. Both men smiled and one said, "Oh no, you are Diego's friends. Don't worry about it." They stood, shook our hands, and as we walked out reminded Juan that they would be in touch next week.

So we'd had a two-hour meeting with a pair of good attorneys who had responded immediately to my call. They came into work on a hot Saturday afternoon to give legal advice to Juan, the friend of a friend of their friend and law associate. They had placed themselves on-call 24 - 7.

For friendship. Do not mention money.

And this is not a rare occurrence in Mexico. It is not unusual at all. In fact, the power of relationships is often what gets things done, especially in business and politics. Someone looks you in the eye and says, "You've got my support, amigo," and things start to happen.

This system not only gets things done, it deepens and strengthens relationships. I think it goes back to colonial times, when there was no body of law to protect ordinary people. People found support and a safety net in their family and social network, so these ties became extremely important. These relationships are nurtured over a lifetime. They remain crucial to this day. The workings and essential nature of these friendships are aspects of the culture which we foreigners often do not understand.

Of course this is not the end of my story. Quite possibly some day, Diego or one of his associates will ring me and say, "I wonder if you can help me out with something." And I will say, "Sure, amigo, you can count on me. I'll be right over."

This is a true story. Names and details have been altered to protect privacy. 

Living Here: Waiting Around

Cancún Airport, Terminal 2

Cancún Airport -- I've been traveling a lot, and inevitably that means I spend time waiting around. I've found ways to minimize wait time, but occasionally am attracted by a bargain airfare that includes a less-convenient itinerary. I don't look forward to waiting, but I've found that such time isn't as heavy on my hands as it once was.

Take the trip I am in the midst of right now. Due to the nature of early-morning bus schedules and to avoid arriving late for morning flight out of Cancún, I took a bus from Mérida at midnight, arriving in Cancún around 4:00AM. This gave me some hours to kill before I needed to be at the airport.

So I did what I often do in this situation: I walked across the street from the Cancún Terminal to the Sanborn's restaurant, which is open 24 hours. After a leisurely breakfast and a long linger over coffee (which fortunately is pretty good there), I returned to the terminal and caught the half-hour shuttle to the airport.

As I write this, I still have quite a bit of time to wait, but it isn't bothering me. I watch people, walk around, read, and in this case, work on a blog post. Sometimes I find myself chatting with interesting people.

I think that living in Mexico has taught me patience, particularly with things I can't control. Waiting is something we just have to do. I try to make the best of it.

I don't believe that "time is money." It's much more valuable than money. I've also absorbed the fact that being "productive" or busy doesn't necessarily equate to virtue, so I am perfectly happy to be alone with my thoughts, or quiet my mind and drift for a little while. I don't feel like time spent waiting is "wasted" time.

An advantage of having plenty of time when traveling is that delays or occasional long lines don't bother me. I have little cause to worry about missing my flight. I can let others cut in line if they are running late. No sweat.

Passing through a busy destination like this one gives me plenty of time to observe people who are stressed, rushing around on their vacation, tensely glancing at watches and making phone calls while waiting in airport lines. I am happy to have left a lot of that way of life behind.

Cancún Bus Terminal, 4:00AM

Living Here: Annual Storm Rehearsal

The patio in a tropical storm, 2007

We're watching the approach of tropical storm Ernesto, forecast right now to touch the continent a good distance southeast of Mérida, probably as far south as Belize, early on Wednesday.

No one is concerned at this point that Ernesto will amount to a significant emergency in Mérida. Most likely we will just have some rainy days and a bit of wind. However, Ernesto is noteworthy because it's our first real tropical storm warning of the year. At some point in the earlier stages of every hurricane season an event occurs that makes us realize that it's time to check our storm readiness. Ernesto is that take-notice event of 2012.

We did have a brief windstorm in April that brought hurricane-force gusts to Mérida, but that was an oddity, over in less than an hour, and unconnected with hurricane season, so didn't cause too much excitement about storm preparedness.

An April windstorm was too early to cause much excitement

This morning after checking the weather news, I made a new list of things to check, do, and buy.

Today I am pruning and cleaning the yard, roof and terraces of debris and objects that might blow, be damaged by wind or impede drainage. I'm also making a mental inventory of things like planters and outdoor furniture that will need to be secured in case of high winds.

Tomorrow I'll shop to bulk up the larder. I will buy mostly food that doesn't depend upon refrigeration and that can be readied and consumed, if necessary, without the use of electricity or the stove. I don't eat a lot of prepared foods, but canned tuna, hard cheese, fat-free tostadas, along with fruit and vegetables that keep well are at the top of my list. I also will make sure I have at least a week's worth of purified water on hand.

I've checked my supply of candles, matches and batteries and made a short list for the hardware store which includes spare batteries, tape, some rope and wire. I also today pulled out the sheets of plywood I salvaged some time back to protect the front door and windows. I think tomorrow I will have time to measure, cut these to size and check the fit, and then number them so they can be installed quickly some day when we have a real hurricane.

On my list for the eve of the storm, in this case Tuesday (if anything develops) is to charge the cell phone and radio, to make sure I can stay in touch if the house loses power. This is the day to check the gas level in the car and top it off, if necessary. Were a real storm getting close, this would be the day I would hang the plywood, tape glass, gather up the rags, squeegee, mop and buckets, and secure things around the property.

At that point there won't be much else to do but stay close to home and wait to see what happens.

And after this dress rehearsal, I will be mostly ready for whatever may occur during the rest of the hurricane season, which extends until the end of November.

Living Here: Shopping Locally

A walk down to the Santiago market area yesterday reminded me how different shopping can be in Mexico. It's something you get accustomed to and don't notice once you've lived here awhile.

I try to patronize the small, locally-owned businesses. Shopping at big malls and large chain stores is just about the same anywhere in the world these days, but the mom-and-pop stores in Mexico offer things not available any longer elsewhere.

First stop, the auto parts store for new limpiaparabrisas, windshield wiper blades.

I took in one of the worn-out blades from my car so I would have an example. These small stores don't always carry name brands or have a huge book listing the exact part necessary for an individual make and model year of car, so it's a good idea to have an example for comparison to be sure what you're buying will fit. The guy measured the blade, and then asked me, "Do you want just one?" In the States, folks generally replace wiper blades in pairs, under the assumption that when one starts streaking, the other is soon to follow. Not so here, where people often try to eek out the last bit of use from an item before buying a replacement.

When I told the salesman I needed two, the next question was, "Do you want two the same size?" Now I guess it might seem a little odd that someone would buy two blades of different sizes, but actually the rear window wiper on my car is smaller, and I guess someone might come in and buy two replacements of different sizes. The counter guy was being thorough.

So I bought my replacement wiper blades, each complete with metal armature and adapters to make sure it fits on the wiper arm of any car. I got exactly what I needed, no more, no less. I paid seventy-six pesos, or about $5.55 in the United States. Not a bad deal, and quite a bit less than I would have paid in a larger, fancier store, or anywhere north of the border.

The smaller stores mostly cater to neighborhood residents who need to make their pesos go as far as possible. These kinds of no-frills places are exactly the opposite of the Costco and box store model, where shoppers buy items pre-packaged and often in quantity. Need one picture hanger? Well, in the big store, the smallest quantity available in blister-packs is probably a dozen, so you might end up paying for eleven more than you need. But in the small neighborhood stores you can save money by buying only the quantity you can use.

If you need one nail, one screw, or just a couple ounces of plaster or paint thinner, the neighborhood Mexican store is the kind of place for you.

So next I headed to the tlapalería, or hardware store. I had a couple of faucets that were dripping, something common around here with our hard, mineralized water.

The tlapalería is the kind of place with a long counter separating the customers from the merchandise, which is contained in bins and boxes on high shelves along the walls and "out back." You tell the man what you need, and he brings examples to the counter for inspection. Liquids are measured into small containers, and quantities of other items are counted or weighed. Advice is plentiful and free.

I bought six rubber and leather washers to repair dripping faucets. They came out of huge bins, and look as if they were punched by hand from old tires or other repurposed material. But they work fine, and I would much prefer to buy parts made by small businesses in Mexico, without the wasteful packaging seen in larger stores, and in just the quantity I need. Six washers cost me six pesos, or about forty-five cents.

The tlapalería owner even manufactures his own packaging. When I had paid for my purchases, the guy slipped them into a small paper bag, made from a recycled catalog page which he'd folded in half and glued along two edges, leaving one end open to create an envelope into which he slipped my washers. The handmade bag also has a hand-lettered publicity flyer glued onto the front, listing products available along with the store address, phone number and the fact that the tlapalería is open on Sundays.

My windshield wipers are renewed and my faucets are fixed. All with economy, recycling and the money spent in the local community. I also stopped at the bank along the way. Total distance walked was about six blocks and time spent a little more than half an hour. Neighbors greeted me on the walk home. That's something I can buy into.


Here's another post on Economy.

Living Here: The Heat is on its Way

A short while ago in my kitchen, at the back of the house facing the garden, I began to hear the satisfied coos and clucks of parrots deep in the shade, munching the abundant ripe pistachios on my neighbor's tree. They continued doing so as I sat before my laptop at the table to start writing this post.

It's a sign of the season.

Another signal is that I find myself watering the garden more often, and despite this, some plants wilt or curl their leaves in the afternoon. Starting in late April, and running through May and into June, Yucatán bakes.

I notice these sorts of things, feel the dampness of my skin, and acknowledge that the hot season is beginning. We haven't had a long run of blistering days yet, but the temperatures in Mérida and the surrounding area already have reached about 40 degrees Celsius, or 104F, a few times this spring. Soon temperatures will climb even higher, and stay that way for days or weeks at a stretch.

At this point in the year we start seeing more heat-related stories in the local paper. There was one last week about temperature records and predictions of a long, dry hot season.

This is this time when the wisdom of high ceilings, found here mostly in older buildings, becomes evident, at least for those of us who live without air conditioning. The extra height gives heat and humidity space to rise above head level, keeping inhabited space near the cool tile floors more comfortable.

And speaking of high places, now is the time to start sleeping in the the upstairs bedroom I built with large windows for cross-ventilation that take advantage of nightly breezes. Exposed to the sun, the room is hot during the day, but at night when opened up it's like a tree house, cool and airy.

To keep the rest of the place comfortable, I have at least one ceiling fan in every room of the house, and about now is when I begin running them most of the time.

And this is the season when most folks around here with access to a pool or the beach start taking advantage of it. Nothing beats the heat like cooling water.

It is also a good time for a getaway. I find the hot months the perfect for a visit with family in Alaska, or to see friends in the cooler highlands of central Mexico. Even a visit to my parents in South Florida, which when I lived in Alaska seemed terribly hot, now provides relief. If someone ever had predicted that I would view a trip to Florida as a respite from the heat, I would never have believed them.

Related posts:
Heat, I'm Cool, Pool Time, The Rains are Here -- Almost

Turbonada

My back kitchen/dining area this afternoon.

I learn new words best when I associate them with an experience. Today's unforgettable new Spanish word is: turbonada -- a sudden storm or squall.

We are in the midst of a serious dry spell. There were predictions last week of electrical storms with chances of some precipitation, but nothing much happened. Then, today in the midst of a very hot afternoon, thunder rumbled and dark clouds actually appeared.

But what started out as a welcome afternoon thundershower quickly escalated into something more. As lights dramatically flickered I hurried around the house unplugging appliances. Not long after that, I left the shelter of my bedroom in an attempt to secure a back kitchen door that was banging after being wrenched open by hurricane-force gusts. When I entered the kitchen area, I discovered that some light-weight rattan dining room furniture had scooted several feet across the floor and mosquito screens had been blown in.

Two large potted coconut palms which live outside on the patio had blown over and had their tops lying inside the dining area. The wind made a clean sweep of the kitchen counters closest to the open door; everything was on the floor. Rain pelted horizonally through the back of the house. Artwork from the walls lay on the flooded floor.

Large fallen branches fill my neighbor's back patio

Howling winds uprooted trees and downed power lines. An old ramon tree lost large branches, leaving the neighbor's walled patio looking like an Easter basket full of fake green plastic grass, waiting for colored eggs. A metalwork trellis, which I had built along the top of my garden wall, failed completely and fell, carrying with it a couple hundred pounds of vines and leaves, on top of my flower garden. Many plants in the ground and many of those in pots ended up crushed or lying horizontally.

The garden plants and shrubs suffered the worst.

My vented skylights leaked. As soon as the lightning stopped I climbed to the roof and discovered why: the downspouts were plugged with branches and leaves, and my flat roof was covered in more than six inches of water. This began to drain as soon as I had cleared the debris.

During the storm, I'd heard hail the size of peas pelting the doors and windows. Afterward, I discovered many garden plants had their leaves shredded. Bits and pieces of this blender-residue debris is sort of wet-pasted all over the exterior of the house and on window screens.

Walking down the block later, I noticed one cable down on the street, and intersections flooded. I was told that falling branches have damaged a lot of cars. My friend Jonathan out at Hacienda San Antonio Xpakay called to report that his kitchen's sheet metal roof had blown away.

I suffered little real loss from the turbonada. A young palm tree was uprooted, but I suspect that once propped up it will recover. The metalwork that was damaged will cost me a bit to repair, but not that much, really. Most of the plants will survive. The house is messy with blown leaves and dirt, but in a day or two will be presentable. The pool is murky and full of garbage, but a couple hours of elbow grease and a few dollars worth of chemicals will take care of that.

I guess today was a good practice, in its small way, for hurricane season. Now I have a few new ideas about things to be taken care of before we get a real storm one of these days.

As I began cleaning up with squeegee and mop, I took time out to buy some beer and order a pizza. It arrived late. However, although it was a bit cold, the pizza tasted good. 

Living Here: Monday Morning Coffee

It started only a couple of years ago, but has become a ritual for us. We congregate Monday mornings, around the shiny, wooden tables of a local cafe. We sip coffee from heavy old china. Spoons and cups clink against saucers, to a background of soft voices and faint music.

The core group consists of three: Paul, Eric and myself. From time to time others sit in but often it is just us three.

A few other morning regulars do the same nearby as white-guayabera-clad waiters move between tables, pouring refills and bringing food. Newspaper softly crinkles as someone scans the morning news or sports section. Sometimes a whiff of woodsmoke sifts in from the huge, brick bakery ovens out back. The place is old, and has changed little over the decades. Sitting here it is easy to imagine one has been transported back the 1940's.

Except of course that in the 1940's we likely never would have gotten together, because we first became acquainted through blogs. We are bloggers. When we talk about blogging, it's usually about comments or topics brought up in the community of blogs we follow. But mostly we dive into a variety of other subjects.

Eric and Paul

Although we don't get heavily into politics, it's there from time to time, along with occasional doses of philosophy and faith. We talk about the many things that interest us, and as mature people do, sometimes we reminisce a bit. But I think mostly what it gets down to is we're all interested in getting the most out of the years we have left to spend on this planet, and we like to share ideas along those lines. It's always an interesting and enjoyable conversation.

That's pretty much the way it is Monday mornings at La Flor de Santiago, when a few friends reunite to sip coffee and converse.

We don't exactly solve the world's problems, but sometimes we feel that perhaps we've made a little headway. That's a pretty good way to start the week.


Things are about to change. Eric leaves this week, as family and other obligations call him north. And Paul will do the same soon. I'll miss them and our Monday morning coffee sessions until they both return to Mérida in the fall.

Read Paul's blog here and Eric's blog here.

Living Here: Flat Tires and Car Trouble

Trying to avoid a pothole while driving through a small pueblo last week, I misjudged, hit the curb and blew out my right front tire.

I stopped and took a look, confirming that the tire was shredded and completely flat. Fortunately I'd been going slowly, so there was never any danger, just inconvenience. I turned at the next corner onto a side street, and began the process of changing my tire.

People in Yucatan's pueblos generally are pretty nice, but they are not usually outgoing with strangers, especially foreigners. If you say "buenos dias," or ask a question they will respond, but often unless a stranger makes the first move, the locals will watchfully but quietly pass by without overt demonstrations of friendliness.

I quickly got off the old wheel and put on the new, which is one of those little, temporary-type spares. Lowering the jack, I realized that the spare was nearly flat. As I stood there looking at it and wondering what to do next, a young man who'd apparently been silently observing the whole process from beyond the wall of his front yard hollered that he had a tire pump. He appeared a moment later from around the corner and handed me a bicycle pump. I connected it to the valve stem and began the slow process of inflating the tire. After watching for a minute or two, the young man offered to help. With younger, stronger arms, in about twenty seconds he'd gotten the pressure up to an appropriate level. I thanked the guy, and saying, "de nada" -- it was nothing -- he walked off, carrying his pump.

This reminded me of another experience I had in Mérida centro some years ago. My prior car was not terribly reliable and one day it abruptly stopped in the middle of a downtown intersection. I got out of the stalled vehicle while horns honked and a traffic jam developed around me. Within half a minute, a traffic cop appeared and helped me push the car through the intersection and over to the curb.

The officer offered to call roadside assistance, which I took to mean a tow truck. However about five minutes later a black municipal police pickup truck with flashing lights and marked Auxilio Vial (roadside assistance) parked behind my car and a uniformed officer jumped out. After asking me for details of what had happened, he grabbed a tool kit and began to troubleshoot under the hood.

I'd heard of and seen "Los Angeles Verdes" -- The Green Angels -- federal highway officer/mechanics charged with safety and security on the nation's highways. These officers help stranded motorists changes tires or make minor repairs along Mexican arteries, particularly in heavily-traveled areas in the central part of the country. But I'd not known that the City of Mérida boasts a similar service.

We stood on baking asphalt in the heat reflected from surrounding buildings. I walked to a nearby store and bought three cold drinks. The traffic officer and I moved to the shade of a nearby building to sip ours while the third guy sweated under the hood of my car. After spending a few minutes checking wires and connections he waved me over and said, "try it." To my amazement and delight, the car fired right up. There were big smiles all around. I vigorously shook the mechanic's grimy hand. I think I even slapped him on the back.

I asked the officers if there was a charge for the service, and they responded, "No, it's a service to the public." We stood for a few moments chatting while the mechanic finished his drink. After taking my name, address and license number and having me sign a form, the mechanic offered to follow me home in case I had more trouble. I thanked him again, but declined.

In a place where some complain about hassles and bribe-taking on the part of officials, in my moment of need I came into contact with two police officers who are honest and proud of their work. I've got to say that my experience was about as easy as a roadside breakdown could possibly be.

Life certainly is not perfect anywhere, but more often than not around here, I run into people like these. Like the officers and the young man in the pueblo, there are plenty of folks in Yucatán who observe simple, old-fashioned rules about getting along, hospitality and helping others. It is one of the things that makes living here such a pleasant experience.

Living Here: The Art of the Siesta

Some people are very casual about their siesta

I think that taking a good siesta is an art.

The traditional afternoon siesta developed for good reasons. Napping is a great way to escape the worst heat of the day and refresh one's self for the evening ahead.

Some people, like the guy pictured above, just casually plop down for a little rest in the afternoon. That's great and it works, but I think a siesta can be something more. There's a technique to having a really good siesta.

First, you don't want to sleep too long, or you wake sleep-drunk and spend too much time recovering your energy and focus. And there's nothing wonderful about waking up at dinnertime and realizing that you've accidentally slept a whole beautiful afternoon away.

However when the siesta is too short, I find it unsatisfying. I don't simply lay down. I make it special, and here are a few of my guidelines.

Although it's tempting, don't take a rest immediately after lunch. Stay up and get a little exercise first. It's better for your digestion. You'll rest easier.

Take off your clothes. Especially if the weather is warm, this is a good idea. It's more comfortable, and your clothes will feel fresher when you put them on again.

If daytime sounds bother you, create white noise. Soft music or a fan are good for this. Silence the phones to ensure quality time. If you are serious about your siesta, you've got to make sure there are no interruptions.

Try taking your siesta in a hammock or another place different from where you sleep at night. I think this signals mind and body that it's just a siesta, not a full overnight sleep and makes it easier to get up.

My favorite place for a siesta...an empty beach house

Unless you are good at cat napping, set an alarm, and get up when it goes off. For me, 30 - 60 minutes is the perfect length for a siesta. However if you wake up after 20 minutes and feel good, go ahead and get up.

Jumping in a pool or having a cool rinse-off in the shower after a siesta really helps get the afternoon off to a good start. If you like caffeine, have a cup of coffee or tea. I like to drink my cup of hot coffee in the pool. On afternoons when I am having a hard time getting up, the dangling carrot of a cup my of favorite beverage in the cooling water helps get me vertical.

I find that the sleep of siestas is often deep, dreamless and less restless than at night. Taking a good siesta doesn't necessarily help me stay up later at night, but the quality of my evening improves when I have rested.

That's what works for me. Of course, here I am talking about siestas taken alone. The art of the siesta -- accompanied -- can be something altogether different. I am not sure I am prepared to write about that, in this blog, at least. But you'll know it if I do.

Living Here: Contrasts

Life in Mexico becomes more interesting as my social world expands. It is also a study in contrasts. One thing I have discovered is that my social life is spread over a much wider and more diverse spectrum here than it ever was in the states.

Here's what I did last weekend.

Very early on Christmas Eve, La Noche Buena, I flew from Oaxaca home to Mérida and from here drove out to be with friends in a small Yucatán pueblo. After receiving arrival handshakes from the men and kisses on the cheek from the women, I was served tacos of relleno negro and wonderful pibil-style turkey. The animal, which had been raised in the back yard, was killed earlier in the day and cooked in the traditional Mayan way, wrapped in banana leaves, placed on a bed of hot coals and rocks at the bottom of a hole, and covered with branches, leaves and earth.



At one point in the evening, a prodigal son, who in recent years rarely had visited home and was not expected, suddenly arrived, to the great joy of his parents and sisters. It was a beautiful and touching moment. The party shifted into high gear.

After eating many servings of food followed by dessert, then lingering late over a few caugamas (liter bottles) of beer, the family group, consisting of a pair of elder parents, their numerous children, and some grandchildren, nieces and nephews, slowly began to hang hammocks throughout the small house and drift off to sleep. I was given a place of honor -- a hammock hung in a corner, near one of the two fans in the house -- in a room with seven other hammocks. A few family members stayed up very late drinking and talking in the back, and only lay down to sleep when hammocks were left free by the early risers.

On Christmas morning we sat around the table and drank coffee, ate leftovers, which had been boiled -- no fridge here -- and took a walk in the monte to observe wildflowers and visit a cenote. Later I helped hang new window screens, which were my holiday gift to these friends. I received a pair of beautiful, handmade pillowcases from the "mom" of the house. After a bucket bath, more food and a lazy afternoon siesta rounded out my relaxing "pueblo Christmas."

The activities of the days preceeding this could not have been more different. I was in Oaxaca to attend the baptism of Benito Xilonen, son of the singer Lila Downs and Paul Cohen. I'd helped my friend Victoria Dehesa, godmother to Lila and Benito, obtain a few items for the ceremony and she'd invited me to visit Lila and family with her and to attend the baptism and fiesta.

It was an elegant event. After the ceremony in a small church, we walked through the pueblo, led by a brass band and announced with voladores, skyrockets, to an old renovated hacienda. As the hacienda gates opened onto a vast lawn, waiters lined both sides of the walkway, offering trays of drinks and ice cream to cool and revive the arriving throng. It was a very eclectic group: lots of local Oaxacan and Mexican folks mixed with an international crowd of family, friends, musicians and artists.

After resting in chairs placed in the shade of large umbrellas, listening to live music and being served appetizers and more refreshments, we were ushered inside the large casona to lunch. Seated at long tables we  dined on a delicious mole as a jazz ensemble played. This was the first of five different bands to entertain us this day, one set each. Jazz was followed by a Oaxacan brass band, then pop music, Oaxacan dancers, and more traditional music.

 At one point in the afternoon I was invited onto the dance floor by Lila. Later, I danced as she sang La Sandunga from the floor nearby. Lila Downs has been my favorite performer and recording artist of Mexican music for many years. For a long-time admirer and follower of her music, these unexpected experiences were right up there with the best of Christmas gifts.

After about ten hours of fiesta I had to call it a night in order to get ready for an early morning flight back to Mérida and my pueblo Christmas, but as I said my goodbyes at midnight it seemed that the party was just warming up. I've enjoyed few such events more and was sorry to leave.

I had two very different experiences in different parts of the country last weekend, but they had much in common: the abundant hospitality, warmth, sharing of important traditions, and genuineness of the people were all very much the same. They were both wonderful celebrations. I feel blessed to be able to walk with equal comfort here in many circles.

To all of my friends and readers, Happy New Year.

Living Here: Quiet Moments at the X'matkuil Fair

I always go to the Yucatán fair held each November at X'matkuil, on the outskirts of Mérida. Typically I go during off-hours, when there aren't too many people in attendance.

I drove out to the fairgrounds Friday afternoon just a little ahead of the crowds that would mob the place on this, the last weekend before closing. I like to avoid the jostle and crush. The razzle-dazzle of lights and noise, the midway, huge crowds, and the throbbing music of the beer gardens, concerts and other attractions just aren't my style.

What I like about X'matkuil is the old-time country fair aspect: prize animals, agricultural displays, crafts and the horse-riding events. I enjoy wandering and observing in the nooks and crannies of the fair, away from the the bright lights, big noise and clamor.

One of the beautiful things I saw late Friday was this pair of lovely horses. I am not a horse person, so I can't say what kind these are or describe them in accurate horsey language. One was white with gray spots, with a deep brown-red "cap" on it head that flowed like a cape down its back, and strands of reddish mane that hung down its face. The other was a soft silvery gray, with wonderful chocolate-brown freckling all over its body.

The horses were well socialized. They both noticed me and moved closer as I began to take photos. Then, at once they moved together toward the division between their separate stalls and took turns stretching their necks across the divide to nuzzle and caress each other. All the while, they maintained eye contact with me, as if posing and communicating, "See, here's my good buddy."

I enjoy watching displays of horsemanship, roping and riding, so I moved on to the arena to see what the charros, cowboys in traditional dress, were doing. I witnessed a moment of pageantry as teams of competitors entered the arena to the rhythm-heavy clamor of a four-piece band. It was great to watch the riders salute as they rode their beautiful animals around the arena. It was moving to participate moments later as the competitors and audience removed hats and applauded for one minute in memory of a fellow competitor who had recently passed away.

I visited the butterfly exhibit, a large screened-in area full of native and non-native species. It's fun to be able to walk among hundreds of free-flying butterflies, who seem to be unafraid and go about their business. In this exhibit it's possible to observe various species up close, and also to watch butterflies hatch before ones' eyes. If you stand still, it's not unusual here to have a butterfly land on you. One perched on my forehead for a moment (leaving no time to get a picture, unfortunately) before fluttering on its way.

It is interesting to see so many exotic butterflies close up, and great fun to watch the children react to the situation. Many school groups were in attendance this day, and the younger crowd is particularly enchanted by the sight of so many of these colorful insects up close. They were equally fascinated by the fish in an artificial pond inside the butterfly area.

Then there were the pigs. What can I say? I like them, especially the native Yucatecan cerdo pelon, or hairless pig. They are small, dark and bald, and I enjoyed watching a group of them rapidly vacuum up a large container of leftover tortillas in about half a minute. This is a species utilized by the Maya and that was once ubiquitous on the penninsula, but whose numbers had fallen drastically over the years as many pork producers shifted to larger, faster-growing commercial breeds. However recent efforts to revive pure genetic lines of this native animal, which is perfectly adapted to the climate and forage available in Yucatán (reducing the need for small producers to buy expensive commercial feed), seem to be successful. The population is growing, and efforts to market products from these animals as specialty items appear to be paying off.

Those are a few highlights of my afternoon at the fair. I did get into the crowds some and enjoyed a bit of the music and high-energy activity, but these quiet moments were the ones I appreciated most. X'matkuil offers something for everyone, and tens of thousands of people attend the fair and find much to enjoy. I am completely content to forego many of the big attractions in favor of exploring the smaller exhibits and quiet corners of the fair.

Here's an earlier post about the fair at X'matkuil, Yucatán in the Snow Zone.

Living Here: Embracing Color

Some foreign residents of Mérida have taken the plunge

Foreigners from cooler northern climes often comment on the uninhibited, sometimes chaotic color sense of many Mexicans. The foreigners don't always warm to it. I used to feel that way, too.

In my family home the color scheme was what I might term midwestern conservative. When I was small, our walls were always beige and furniture shades of brown. When we moved into a new house in the late '60's and my mom chose "harvest gold" shag carpet, upholstery in muted green and reddish tones and an avocado refrigerator, we thought it was pretty hip. But that was about as groovy as we ever got.

Although it's changing, where I grew up things still look pretty dull. In Juneau, shades of brown, tan and gray seem to be the predominant color choices for the exteriors of houses and buildings. I am sure these are not everyone's favorite colors. So why, in a climate where the weather is often dull and dark, do people paint their houses in dull and dark colors? And in Mexico, especially tropical Yucatán, why is it so vibrant? I suppose it has to do with culture and what we are used to, but I wonder how environment influences our feelings about color. That's something to look into.

My friend Paul, originally from the midwest, blogged about the time he allowed his maintenance man to choose colors for some accents as he painted the patio area of Paul's Mérida home. Paul was "stunned" by the choices, but they didn't seem all that wild to me.

I realized at that moment that I've changed. I have come to enjoy the cacophony of color in Mexico, and now see it as pretty normal. When I travel north on a visit, it seems like a pretty drab place. When I return to Mexico, I am immediately dazzled by not only the brightness of the sun and the heat, but by the color. No holds are barred. Rules are made to be broken. And as far as I am concerned, that's good.

When I moved here, I changed the way I did a lot of things. I wanted to be less inhibited and open to new ideas. One thing I decided to do was to paint every room in the house a different color. Now I have a red living room, green bedroom, and the kitchen/dining area is multicolored, with green and orange predominating. Tile patterns clash. Checks and curlicues abound. It's great. I love the feeling of the place.

Oh yes, although it still wears the same coat of paint it did the day I bought it, the front of my house is pink. One of these days I'll do something about that, but I am not in any hurry.

I am just one of a crowd of foreigners who've moved here and have taken the plunge into color. Embracing color is a simple way to break out of a routine and celebrate the unlimited possibilities of life. It creates energy. It's a manageable form of chaos.

In any case if you later have regrets, paint's not all that expensive.

Home sweet home

Living Here: Taking the Bus

I was the only passenger on a long-distance bus Thursday. I had the entire first-class coach to myself. It was just me and the driver. This was surprising to me considering the high level of bus ridership here, and is an experience I have never had before in Mexico, even though I have traveled a lot by bus.

I make a lot of trips between the Cancún airport and Mérida. This typically has entailed a half-hour shuttle between the airport and the Cancún downtown bus terminal, and the four-hour bus ride between Cancún and Mérida, or vice versa. Recently I have been able to use a newer ADO (Autobuses del Oriente) service that takes passengers directly from the Cancún airport to Mérida, skipping the shuttle and bus station segments entirely. In Mérida it stops in Alta Brisa and at the Hotel Fiesta Americana.

This is a great service and although it costs a little more, if it dovetails with one's arrival or departure schedule, it will save an hour or two. However, I have been on this bus route several times now and have never had more than one or two fellow passengers. At this time there are only a couple of departures from the airport per day, both in the afternoon. From Mérida there are only midnight and 10:00AM departures. With the kinds of flights I've been taking lately, I've only been able to take advantage of the Cancún airport to Mérida run and not the other way around.

The novelty of riding alone in the big bus this week prompted me to recall past bus experiences. When I first traveled by bus in Mexico nearly 20 years ago, I was amazed by the habit of Mexicans to close all the curtains in order to sit in the dark and watch movies or sleep. As a curious traveler, I always prefer to enjoy the beauties of the countryside and see where I am headed. It frustrated me on several occasions, as we passed through spectacular countryside I'd never seen before, when a fellow passenger asked me to close the curtain to eliminate glare on the video monitor so they could watch a vapid, violent movie. Even after making the trip dozens of times, on these cross-Yucatán runs I still often prefer to watch the countryside pass by, monotonous as it may appear along the toll road, than to watch a movie or read. There is always something interesting to see.

I also recalled my surprise, some years ago, at seeing a Jalisco bus driver hurling his cola bottle, junk food wrappers, plastic plate and bags out of the bus window one by one after finishing the various courses of his on-the-job lunch. No one said a word.

I remembered a couple of long, long rides, when a combination of winding mountain roads, those always-closed curtains, heat and questionable roadside food led to the most disagreeable travel experiences I have ever had. Despite those bad trips, I enjoy taking the bus.

I thought about my very first Latin American bus rides, when in the early 70's I did volunteer work in rural Colombia -- the romantic heart of Gabriel Garcia Marquez country. These were true pigs-and-chickens buses. The surplus early 1950s American school buses were painted bright colors and had beads and bangles hanging in the windshields. All of our baggage was piled on the roof, accompanied by a few passengers, young men whom we later suspected of having passed the trip reviewing the contents of our luggage. We sat eight abreast on closely-spaced wooden bench seats as the buses slowly ground along muddy, potholed dirt roads. As we reached a stop, people would swarm on and off the roof, passing down boxes and bundles, and despite the fact that we wanted to watch this process in order to make sure our bags were not stolen, we remained seated in order to not lose our places in the crowded interior. We once waited hours in line at an isolated sun-baked, steamy ferry crossing on the Magdalena River. My most vivid memory of that experience is the very poor campesino family who offered to share their meager food, thick tortillas and some overripe fruit, with me as we waited.

Modern long-distance bus travel in Mexico is a far cry from that long-ago trip and is vastly superior to similar services in the United States. Buses are safe, run frequently, generally run on schedule, and make connections to small towns and pueblos. Buses here are for everyone. Middle-class families and even business executives take the bus. The deluxe buses, such as Platino here in southeast Mexico and ETN in the central part of the country, are more comfortable than first-class airplane cabins, offering roomy reclining seats with full leg rests, snacks, cold and hot drinks, comfortable, clean restrooms, and for those who like that sort of thing, movies -- with headphones -- so the rest of us don't have to listen to movies we have no desire to see.

Second-class and country buses are more interesting, but slower and less reliable. However the people on these buses are wonderful. I can't count the number of times seat mates have offered to share food and drink with me, just as that family did decades ago in Colombia.

I love the bus system here because you can easily go just about anywhere without a car. Taking the bus often costs less than driving, and although it may take longer, it is certainly less stressful. It also affords the chance to really look at the countryside (most of the time), and sometimes to meet interesting people. It's my preferred mode of travel in Mexico.

Living Here: Socializing

Juchitán de Zaragoza, Oaxaca -- My Mexican social life has gone through an evolution over the past eight years. When I first came to Mérida, my group of friends consisted mostly of other foreigners. Now, although I have expatriate friends and continue to make new acquaintances among that crowd, mostly I socialize with Mexican people. The reasons are varied. An experience a few months ago prompted me to think more about the subject.

I was invited by my friend Victoria to visit her home pueblo of Juchitán, out near the Pacific coast in southern Oaxaca, not terribly far from the border with Chiapas. It is a tiring, winding five-hour bus ride from the city of Oaxaca through the mountains down to this area, where traditional Zapotec culture and language is still an active influence on daily life. 

I took a cab from the bus terminal to Victoria’s house.

This old house was first inhabited by her great grandmother, and has come down through the matrilineal line of the family ever since. Roots run deep here, and although Victoria lives in Mexico City where she has pursued a career in music and acting, she identifies herself first and foremost with this place and as a Zapotec woman.



Not long after I arrived, we rode with Victoria’s nephew and his family out to visit relatives who live a little outside of the town. When we got inside the wall that surrounds the large yard, a dog barked once or twice in welcome, and I could hear the sounds of children playing. We were led to a kitchen-dining area that adjoined a roofed patio.



This was an extended-family gathering of maybe 25 people, consisting of mature brothers and sisters, some of their children, grandchildren, and assorted aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.

 The eldest men and some of the women were seated around a long table in the large kitchen. I was provided a chair amidst this group.

The table was scattered with heaping platters of seafood, bottles of beer, and an open bottle of mezcal. Over the next several hours, my plate was never empty for more than a moment before another course was served. The fish soup was followed by caviar and ceviche, shrimp, clams, conch, fish cakes, smoked filets and a variety of salsas and other dishes. My beer was never allowed to warm or become empty, nor was my double-shot mezcal glass. People drank, slowly, but no one appeared drunk or became loud.

I noticed the background sounds of talk and laughter. There was no knot of kids sequestered in a room staring like zombies at a big flat screen, X-Box or computer. The children were all playing together outside. No one was checking their cell phone or sending text messages. The music we had came from one of the older uncles who crooned and played the guitar. At times the others stopped conversing to listen or join in the singing, which was sometimes in the Zapotec dialect. Lots of applause and appreciative cheers followed favorite songs.

For cool-blooded, less-demonstrative northerners who have not pariticpated in these kinds of gatherings, they may present a challenge to notions about personal space. There is plenty of hugging, kissing and touching going on. There are lots of people around, and they like to be close together. And being together was the entire purpose of this afternoon. There was nothing to get in the way of that goal.

I have gravitated increasingly toward this type of socializing as I live longer in Mexico and meet more people. I think in part that is because the Mexican parties are gatherings of family and old friends, and most of the foreigner parties are given by people who do not have family or life-long friends around. For this reason and, I suppose for reasons of culture, the foreigner parties are of a different sort.

At "mix and mingle" foreigner parties I occasionally attend in Mexico, I sometimes feel like the goal is to talk to an individual for a couple of minutes, make a good impression, and then continue to "circulate" in order to chit-chat with everyone else before the evening is over. It seems as if my job is to do a little personal PR presentation to each one I meet. In this environment, only superficial interactions are possible. My wallflower tendencies and dislike of small talk have always inhibited me at these types of social events.

In comparison, the Mexican gatherings are leisurely and more relaxed. People don't arrive punctually, but once they've settled in they tend to hang out for a long time. The importance of family and long-term relationships is obvious in the affectionate way people interact. There is a group spirit. Hospitality and manners are integral and highly-refined arts. And often, cultural roots and history are living participants in the here and now.

These are people who know who they are. Here you encounter them among the folks who know them best. Falseness and superficiality are just about impossible.

In these gatherings, there is plenty of time for an in-depth conversation or to listen in on an intricate discussion between others. People may sing or quote snatches of poetry. There is time to not talk and simply enjoy moments, savor the good food, listen to the words of a song, or to soak up the friendliness. There is time to sit in the garden and watch the children play.

On this particular occasion, in a situation where I was a stranger, I was treated like a long-lost relative. I was told with complete sincerity that I was "in my home," and I was made to feel that way.

That's what makes the difference.