Tercera Edad in San Pancho, Mexico

That Darn Cat

2012-01-02T10:20:00.000-06:00

I have ... no, I had ... a pretty ceramic, handmade plate. Not expensive, just pretty. Blues and browns with a horse grazing. We bought it in a small store in San Sebastian last year.

We didn't use it for anything. It just sat in the middle of the dining room table. I bought it only because I liked it.

New Years weekend we moved it. Put it on a pretty turquoise placemat on a small table.

Now, readers might recall, we have a ladron living with us. A sneaky four-footed semi-Siamese, Chica. She steals washcloths, towels, underwear, dinner napkins. Anything she finds that she likes. And brings them to us. Usually, during the night.

Last night, the thief struck again. You guessed it! Placemat and pieces of ceramic plate on the floor this morning.

There is another trip to San Sebastian in our future.

It's Still Christmas in Mexico

2011-12-30T09:01:00.002-06:00

The best gift ...

Is the simplest gift!

Thank You, Juan

A Stress-free Christmas

2011-12-22T12:26:00.002-06:00

This is the year we didn't decorate for Christmas. No tree, no lights around the pool, none of the candles, none of the nutcrackers. No piñata. Nothing.

It's just not going to happen.

No shopping, not in stores, not online. No gifts. No cookies. No gingerbread. No turkey, no cranberries.

Four small poinsettias and one "Joy" banner. A little music on the computer.

That's it. And it feels good.

Merry Christmas!

San Pancho Hotline

2011-12-21T12:00:00.001-06:00

Word travels fast in a small town like San Pancho.

Word is, my husband, Curt, has a broken arm. And I, a broken leg. All because Curt got into a fight with a guy trying to hijack a car at Home Depot.

Now, a San Pancho resident did get into that fight, but not Curt. And my leg is in a brace, ankle to hip, but no fight for me either.

The leg is bound up because of surgery to reattach my leg muscle to a tendon. and Curt is injury free.

The truth is pretty boring, no?

Tooth Fairy Still Employed

2011-12-19T19:39:00.002-06:00

Our oldest granddaughter just lost her first tooth. Lost being the correct noun. Neither the Fairy nor our son, armed with wrenches could retrieve it from the drain.

Nevertheless Fairy came through with five USDollars! About twenty times more than her dad got 35 years ago.

Inflation!

Gringa 1, Pemex 0

2011-05-31T18:43:00.001-05:00

The four Pemex guys were sitting in the shade, doing nothing, when we pulled into the gas station.

We really didn't need gas, but on Mexico highways you might not find another station for miles.

We were the only customers at the time and as Curt headed toward the restrooms, three of the four came out to the car. All three seemed overly eager to help. Oil? Additives? Air? No, no, no, I replied to all of them.

Just gas. I stood there, watching them, watching the pump. Waiting. The gas pump read 200 pesos. Even. I handed over a 500 peso bill. And they gave me back 200 pesos.

Familiar with the old "short change the gringos" trick at more than one Pemex station, I pointed out the shortage. No, they were correct, they insisted, claiming that the pump had stopped after 100 pesos. Then, they said, they restarted the pump, so it only showed 200 pesos, but I owed them 300 pesos.

I began to insist on my change. I wanted my 100 pesos and I wasn't leaving without it (about $10 in USDollars, if you're reading this north of the border). All three insisted, and I resisted.

For awhile I thought about just giving up and getting out of there, letting them keep the overcharge. But the old midwestern, Swedish stubbornness kicked in and I continued to argue. Loudly and assertively. I repeated myself several times, held out my hand, told them my gas tank couldn't hold as much as they claimed they put in. I wasn't going to back down.

The three of them surrounded me, insisting on 300 pesos worth. I insisted it was only 200. And I wasn't leaving until I got my money.

One finally poked another and said, "give it to her."

As I took my pesos and slipped back behind the wheel, I saw the fourth guy. Still sitting in the shade, pointing at his friends and laughing.

He knew that the gringa had beaten them at their game.

Go Get'em, Cowboys

2011-03-15T09:18:00.008-06:00

We spent the better part of yesterday afternoon sitting in the bed of a pickup truck. With a beer. Or two.

It was one of the best events we've ever been to in San Pancho. A fundraiser for San Pancho's Catholic Church. Equally attended by gringos and Mexicans.

It was a rodeo.

Pure Mexican fun. Music at its loudest. Tostados at their overloaded best. Horses in all their beauty. Steers in pickup trucks. And the romance of cowboys. Silver trappings and spurs.

Oh yes, a Corona truck doing a booming business in ice cold Modelo and Corona. (Now, I know what a cowboy keeps in his saddle bags. Beer!)

There's no place to start. The little kid fully dressed in matador clothes. His friend, also about three, dancing to the music, in time. Boys a little older trying their luck on the mechanical bull. And, later, big guys trying it as well.

In the beginning, for food and drink, we sat on beer chairs in the shade in the pavilion. You know, beer chairs. Plastic, usually found in San Pancho's beach restaurants, advertising beer. Popcorn, tostadas, fruit. Something, I don't know what it was, in a big silver cooking pot. Two local bands played and everyone just sat and sat and ate and ate and listened.

Then, action! With steers, horses and cowboys all having arrived in an assortment of pickup trucks, everyone grabbed their beer chairs and went to the bullring to watch. That's when we crawled into the truck. To better view the action.

To see dancing horses, steer riding and roping, more bands, more dancing horses, more cowboys.

You know, it was just plain fun. San Pancho at its Mexican best.

A freezer full of patas

2011-03-07T17:05:00.004-06:00

We hit the jackpot at Mega today. We scored 80 patas. That's 80 chicken feet we brought home to San Pancho.

That's a seven week supply. With three feet left over. Today's batch of patas? Just 28 pesos, about $2.30 USD.

Most of them look pretty healthy, although I don't like the white ones. Not that I eat them, they just look strange. I guess some chicken's feet are uglier than other chicken's feet.

Oro doesn't care about color or beauty. Or the toenails, which are also rather gross. And daily, just before four, Oro shows up for his afternoon treat. None of those dog cookies or fancy dog treats. Only chicken feet will do.

It's a treat recommended by the dog trainer who helped Oro make the transition from street dog to house pet. This has been going on for more than five years, which if you think about it, comes to more than 1,825 chicken feet, from 900-plus chickens.

So, today, I packaged the 80 feet, seven to a bag, eleven bags, all lined up in the freezer. With a couple extra for Oro to enjoy fresh today.

The butchers here in San Pancho will sell me chicken feet, as well. They cost a little more. And once they snuck in a lot of heads. One San Pancho butcher chops the feet off of the birds in his showcase when I show up. The other usually has a bag of frozen feet.

And frozen is good. They're not nearly disgusting frozen as fresh. And Oro? Fresh or frozen, either way.

Footnotes to a Flood

2010-09-11T12:00:00.006-05:00

The sun is shining in San Pancho.

That's a pretty normal thing to happen in San Pancho. But after all of the rain (19 inches this month) and the flooding, the sun is more than welcome.

People are still carrying loads of things over the footbridge into San Pancho. The stores are stocking their shelves. Gas guy will carry the tanks across the bridge for you. Pueblo water is turned on. We have phones, internet and electricity.

And life is almost back to normal. For most people.

EntreAmigos, San Pancho's biggest nonprofit group, has between 50 and 90 people staying overnight in the community center. Most have lost their homes, others have homes with severe damage. Some have nothing at all. Clothes and food are being donated.

Hats off to the Polo Club! Yesterday, they delivered a barge of food and supplies. Chalupa's pangas brought it ashore from the barge and today it is being distributed at the Polo Club. (See SanPanchoWeather.com for pictures.) Thank you, Ivan and Gabriel.

Garbage is being moved across the footbridge and put into dumpsters which are emptied Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Regular collection days in San Pancho.

Lemmus, which is building the generally unappreciated development across the river from San Pancho, has contributed to our pueblo. Lemmus built both footbridges. Thank yous are in order. And, for those of us hesitant to cross the footbridge, there is now a "railing" of rope. (Again, see SanPanchoWeather.com for photos.)

The Nayarit Health Department is going door to door, telling people not to drink the water unless it is boiled. They are also distributing small bottles of disinfectant to purify water (two drops per liter).

Finally, although I'm sure I could write on forever, the view at the beach has changed. Huge trees and branches have accumulated just off shore. Sand is accumulating and we have a new "barrier reef."

The sun is shining in San Pancho.

Living in the Moment

2010-09-09T11:43:00.002-05:00

Another day … another change.

Help in the form of supplies is coming into San Pancho.

Each morning we go down to where the San Pancho bridge used to be and see what is happening. Yesterday, remember, it was a zipline or a boat to get across the river. Today … another pedestrian bridge, just like the one that washed away Sunday night. Two steel beams, two by fours, and plywood.

And so, it has foot traffic this morning. Man after man, an ant column of them, bringing things into San Pancho. I saw oranges and apples, carrots, tomatoes, cilantro, one cauliflower, lettuce. Gasoline in huge (10 gallon?) plastic bottles. A case of tuna. Water, the huge bottles you turn upside down in the kitchen (5 gallon?). One man from Ciel (the water company Coca Cola owns) carrying 48 quart bottles of water at once! Propane? Not so much. I saw one canister come across. And the biggest package of toilet paper you've ever seen. I'm sure there will be more to come.

I went to Vegetable Lady and bought an onion, two carrots, three stalks of celery, two bananas and one pineapple. I don't want to be greedy and there are people here who need the new supplies much more than we do.

The sun is actually shining late morning. We've had no more rain or flooding.

Talk about flooding … talk about the river. Talk about naive. I realized that, in the three years we've been here, I never heard the river's name. "It doesn't have a name," a young Mexican friend explained yesterday, "because it is an arroyo." I should have known that! Dry for at least nine, maybe ten, maybe more months a year, that arroyo is now raging like a river. But, it will soon disappear, just like it does every year.

And that is that. No more. Just another day. We live for today, as the Mexican people do. And tomorrow will be a new day.

Snapshots of the San Pancho Flood

2010-09-08T13:10:00.005-05:00

Three more inches of rain in San Pancho yesterday. So the excitement continues. If you want a recap, here's the short version of our flood.

First day. Damaged bridge
Second day. No bridge.
Third day. Footbridge.
Fourth day. No footbridge
Fifth day. Ziplines.

Hey, that's today. And a lot of fun to watch people who absolutely have to get in or out of San Pancho use the ziplines. My favorite … the policeman coming into San Pancho on the zipline with his machine gun across his chest. The ziplines are held in place by bucket loaders. The heavier you are the better luck you have in sliding all the way to the other side. Get stuck in the middle? The bomberos (firemen, for all you north of the border) slide over the cable to help.

Don't want to take the zipline? Try the boat. It's about the size of a rowboat, wooden, nicely decorated, just downstream from where the bridge used to be. One guy on each side of the river holds a long rope attached to the boat. People get in the boat on our shore and are pulled to the other shore. Someone gets in over there and gets pulled back to this shore.

Where they are going to or coming from, I have no idea. The roads, north and south, are closed. Rumor has it another bridge on Highway 200 just north of San Pancho has disappeared.

A local nonprofit is taking in people with nowhere to live. They're looking for donations of food, propane. Good luck. Food supplies are limited and propane is nonexistent. And I hope those blankets that were ziplined over have found a good use.

We did add popcorn, cranberry juice, dried taco chips and a bottle of Coca Cola to our diet this morning. Friends actually found bread yesterday and shared half with us. Amazingly, the liquor shelves at the grocery store are still fully stocked. We may have to start imbibing as the pueblo's public water lines are shut down and bottled water is really scarce.

There's family living in a pickup across the street. One family moved its belongings into an empty room next door. Horses are grazing in the soccer field. The ancient school bus that hippies allegedly live in out in the jungle has been driven, or pulled, into town and parked. Our friend Rosa walked five miles home from Sayulita to San Pancho because the roads are still closed. Basically, nothing is normal.

Rain total for the month ... 18 inches in 7 days. And we are still an island.

No way in, no way out. But I said that yesterday.

(NOTE: Curt has updated his SanPanchoWeather.com site with new photos and movies.)

Stranded in San Pancho

2010-09-07T18:46:00.005-05:00

San Pancho is an island. No way in, no way out.

Saturday night (that's September 4), just before midnight, the only bridge into and out of San Pancho disappeared into the river. Parts of the bridge crumbled the night before during heavy rain. By Sunday morning … it was gone.

Just a raging river left behind. I've heard that term "raging river" many times. But this is the first time I've seen a truly raging river. Fast, muddy, at the top of the river banks. Full of debris and trees that had washed downstream.

It was interesting to watch the people of San Pancho. Many, of course, gathered at the river, as they had the morning before, to survey the damage. The first morning women used their brooms and hoses and washed the mud and debris off the street and the bridge. Sunday morning there was nothing to do but stare at the empty space at the end of San Pancho's main street.

No way in, no way out.

Later Sunday, someone set up a zipline to move things across the river and into San Pancho. Someone sent over bundles of blankets, which many of us derided. Heat index here in September is usually high 90s, high 70s at night. But, maybe the hospital needed them because nurses and doctors couldn't leave town. The zipline disappeared, too.

Monday … a temporary footbridge appeared over the river. Plywood on boards laid on a steel beam. Not for the faint of heart. Supplies started to arrive in San Pancho … I saw huge bottles of water, orange juice and milk carried across.

This morning. No footbridge. It, too, washed away by the raging river. Again, no way in, no way out.

And, even if you did get out, there was no place to go, with the only road, Highway 200, closed to the north and to the south due to mudslides and washouts.

It got worse. The river overflowed its banks last night. Friends and neighbors had to leave their homes, right on our street, in the middle of the night. The river and the mud moved in. We heard that some squatters along the river lost their homes.

At first a situation like this seems impossible. You start to think of things. There must be another way out. No, there is not. The bridge will be replaced soon. Not likely.

Then, food. Water. Propane. Not arriving today. Then the internet and the phone went down. Sunday I think. Then the power, yesterday and again today. Money. There are no banks in San Pancho. Gas for the car. There are no gas stations in San Pancho. You realize you are truly isolated in San Pancho.

Right now, we have power, internet and phone in San Pancho. Curt and I have enough food for a week, although we might have to rely on black olives, capers and water chestnuts in some combination. It's amazing how little we do have for real food… beans, onions, chicken breast, pork, a tomato, pancake mix and syrup. We have water. Milk. We're trying to use as little propane as possible.

But, still …. no way in, no way out.

I ventured out into the flooded streets today looking for, silly me, bread. Not a loaf in town. Nor meat. Nor, most surprisingly, tortillas. The tortilla factory is out of propane. I bought a bag of potato chips for Curt and sour cream for me (add a little sugar and vanilla and we can enjoy our diet Jello).

This is the quietest San Pancho has ever been. No traffic, no tourists, no restaurants. Nothing.

What caused all this? Rain, rain and more rain. Today is the 7th of September. This week, we have had more than 16 inches of rain, 8 of it yesterday. Right now, it's raining again. But not very much. Hopefully.

To see photos of all the destruction, go to SanPanchoWeather.Com where Curt has been posting blogs and pictures for you.

Welcoming the San Pancho Wildlife

2010-08-05T16:52:00.005-05:00

Okay, we've had lizards that run on their hind legs. A few scorpions. Some of the neighbor's roosters have come over the wall to visit.

We have a frog that lives in the front hall. And we found another behind the microwave.

Crabs in season. Geckos, of course. Spiders, worms, snails, a slug. Possums, too.

An iguana in the house. Last week, a snake.

Now, squirrels. Small grey squirrels living in the palapa over the room where we watch television.

I've had two grey lizards fall out of that palapa. Even a tiny frog. But squirrels?

The cats and dog see them first. They chatter and point toward the top of the palapa. The squirrels, high in the palapa, work their way down, and jump out under the bottom edge onto a palm and then onto our neighbor's roof.

How do we get rid of them? Do I want to get rid of them?

I happen to like squirrels. The "little people of the trees."

My father didn't.

An aside, now, from a place far away and long ago.

He once hot-wired the pole that held the bird feeder. Every time a squirrel headed up the pole to get breakfast, lunch, or dinner, Dad would press the button in the breakfast room to send a shock to the intruder.

Another time, when a family of squirrels moved into the basement, he took his shotgun down to annihilate them. It was, shall we say, over kill. The squirrels did, indeed depart, but so did a few chunks of basement wall.

Well, I don't have a basement, a squirrel feeder or a gun in San Pancho! But I don't like them in the palapa.

Now what?

Friends think we should trap them and carry them out into the jungle. But I think we'll try Curt's idea first.

He thinks that when they are old enough, they'll just move on.

Adios, ardillas.

San Pancho Street Dog Moves to Canada

2010-08-01T18:56:00.009-05:00

Chico, finally, has a home of his own and people that love him.

He has toys, new food and water bowls, all the food he wants, and a big yard with grass to play in. His rescuers tell me that he's starting to act like a puppy, which he is.

But a puppy who has had to scrounge for food, look for a place to sleep every night, and find somewhere to get out of the rain. Chico got to be pretty good at all three as he lived on the streets of San Pancho. But it was hard to be just a puppy.

Life for a dog, any dog, is difficult on the streets. Chico always looked thin. For meals, he depended on garbage, usually not very tasty or healthy. Once, I saw him madly digging, catching something that looked like a mouse, and then eating it while it was still wiggling. People yelled at him, kids threw rocks, and he got hit by a car.

Chico was around our neighborhood for several months. Unlike other street dogs, he kept his tail in the air. He wanted you to feed him, walk with him, take him home. But if you moved toward him too quickly, he cowered. He was hungry, lonely and dirty. We tried to find a home for him once, but it didn't work.

Suddenly, his luck changed. Two friends from British Columbia, Canada, came to San Pancho for a visit. And Chico adopted them. He followed them all over town, he followed them into restaurants and, of course, he followed them to where they were staying. And they fell in love with Chico.

They decided to take Chico home. But their airplane, departing Saturday, had no facilities for animals. After two days of fruitless calls to airlines ("We don't fly dogs," "we don't fly dogs without their owners," "we don't fly dogs April to October"), Continental Airlines came through with a plan. Chico would fly as cargo.

Let's just say it wasn't cheap. A visit to the vet, buying a kennel to travel in, paying a broker's agent and paying for the flight. Oh yes, a fuel surcharge, too. And he could fly to Vancouver on Monday. His new "mother" booked the flight.

Curt and I, and Oro, our own former street dog, were happy to foster Chico while he waited for the flight. It was a wonderful weekend, spent with a fabulous dog. I think he felt safe. He certainly was happy.

Chico shared Oro's dog food, which is always available in the kitchen. Several times we saw him just go look at the food, as if to reassure himself that it was still there. At first he had trouble chewing dry dog food. A small piece of raw chicken kept sliding out of his mouth, but he ate it cooked. He slept on the floor in our bedroom, all night, without a sound.

By weekend's end we wanted to keep Chico. He really was a beautiful dog. He was well-behaved and happy, and didn't mind getting in the car for the ride to the airport.
Chico decided that the back of the SUV wasn't for him. He wanted to ride in front, between us, and, better yet, on my lap. He was getting used to traveling in style.

Last Monday, Chico boarded a plane in Puerto Vallarta and headed to Vancouver, roughly 3,000 miles away, with a layover in Houston. We followed him online as Continental posted his progress. "Piece arrived in Houston." "Piece departed Houston." "On hand at destination." "Piece released." I think they said "piece" rather than "animal" or "dog" because he flew as cargo.

The flight went just fine. He was quietly resting in his kennel when his new owners went to customs to pick him up.

We love getting emails and pictures from Chico's new family. Walking in the park, playing with other dogs, sleeping on his blanket, running in the grass. And, we are told, riding in a special box built on the back of his new owner's motorcycle.

Chico, you're one lucky dog!

The "Jesus Lizard"

2010-07-27T17:50:00.003-05:00

No kidding, it can walk on water. Or, in our case, on land.

Thanks to friends north and south of the border, we now know that it is part of the Basiliscus genus of lizards. I think ours was the Striped or Brown Basilisk, Basiliscus vittatus, that is found in rain forests. I say that, only because he was indeed striped. And I hope he wasn't the only one in San Pancho.

If you're wondering what I'm writing about, see the blog below. With picture.

To see one in action, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45yabrnryXk

The "Jesus Lizard." Or, the "Jesus Christ Lizard." Think Matthew 14:22-34.

Alas, ours is dead. Murdered by a Semi-Siamese.

Running on two legs?

2010-07-25T16:23:00.004-05:00

My husband swears it's true.

A lizard, chased out of the garden by the semi-Siamese, running across the patio on two rear legs.

Did the cat enjoy the other two legs? She does enjoy a snack when able to catch a wandering gecko.

Was it a gecko? lizard? iguana? Or ... was Curt imagining something weird???

No! It is possible.

There it is, in the front hall. And, damn, there it goes, down the hall, across the patio, through the kitchen. With Dog in hot pursuit. On it's rear legs.

The lizard wins!

Now, if you know what it is, you can win this marvelous prize:

Go into the laundry room and get it out of there!

Until now ...

2010-07-17T16:21:00.001-05:00

I've never lived where there are a hundred dead giant, winged bugs outside the bedroom door in the morning.

I've never lived where the termites fly through once a year and shed their gossamer wings under the hall lamp.

I've never lived where the crabs fall into the swimming pool and wander through the yard on their annual trip to the ocean.

I've never lived where the doctor charges only $200 pesos, or about $15, for a visit.

I've never lived where my neighbor raises fighting cocks.

I've never lived where I had a maid. And a gardener. And a pool guy.

I've never lived where I had a friend who lived in the recycling center.

I've never lived with a frog living in the front entryway.

I've never lived where you can pick mangos off the ground.

I've never lived with a tarantula in the bathroom. Make that, two tarantulas.

I've never lived where you can't get mail delivered to the house.

I've never lived where an iguana showed up in the house.

I've never lived where you had to put impermeablezante on the roof.

I've never lived under a palapa.

I've never lived where there's a goat munching on the weeds and tied to the fence where I park my car.

I've never lived where a small family frequently walks by the house playing music and asking donations for their efforts.

Until now.

And, I like it.

Our Two Boys Named Rudy

2010-06-23T18:31:00.001-05:00

This month of June is birthday month for "my" two Rudys. One is our grandson; one our godson.

Rudy is our youngest grandson and he turns 3 next week. RudyToo was 2 last week. They both got trucks from us for their birthdays. Rudy, a garbage truck that he'd been eyeing in the local toy store. RudyToo, a CAT dump truck, the only affordable toy truck the area Walmart offered.

That's about where the similarities end.

RudyToo (we don't call him that in real life, just when we are differentiating between the two) was born prematurely in the local hospital, sent home less than 24 hours later, and barely made it through his first two days because he couldn't suckle. Seeing that he was seriously ill, in danger of dying before he consumed his first meal, we called our favorite Vallarta hospital and said we were on our way and to be ready!

I'll never forget that hour ride, with RudyToo so weak he didn't raise an arm or leg, didn't make a noise, didn't open his eyes. To make a long blog shorter, I'll just write that Cornerstone Hospital and their doctors worked their magic. Today, he's probably the healthiest two year old in the pueblo.

Rudy, on the other hand, arrived in a wonderful hospital near Boston and weighed in at a healthy 9 pounds 5 ounces. Today, he lives in a comfortable four bedroom home in an upscale Boston suburb. Playroom, laundry room. Three bathrooms. Surrounded by expensive toys an more children's books than he'll ever be able to read.

RudyToo lives in a small squatters shack along the river. Dirt floors. Tarp over the roof. No washing machine, no stove, no kitchen sink. Basically, nothing. One room. Two double beds. A plastic table. Two chairs. The oldest refrigerator I've ever seen (maybe it cools stuff, maybe it's a pantry). And a fan. Not a book in the house.

Both of the Rudys have parents that love them. Rudy's parents are both professionals, college grads. Rudy has one sister, 6, and a baby brother or sister on the way. RudyToo, now 2, has a sister, 3, and two brothers, 4 and 9. RudyToo's father can't read.

So, we're Grandparents to Rudy and Copadres (godparents) to RudyToo. (More about that another day). We're lucky to have both of them in our lives. It's just the contrast that bothers me.

I know life isn't fair. But, I wish that RudyToo could have the same opportunities in life as Rudy. Of course he won't. But if he did …..

No Easter Bunnies Here

2010-04-01T12:04:00.001-06:00

Semana Santa. Easter week. It's bigger than Christmas.

It's the week when every Mexican that can heads to the beach. And San Pancho is a beach town!

The biggest news in San Pancho is the new street. Tercera del Mundo Avenida … Third World Avenue. It's been two tourist seasons that the road, the main road into San Pancho, has been closed due to construction. Workers started at the beach and have just finished the street to the east, past the soccer field. Maybe, two thirds of a mile. But, it is done!!

Of course Semana Santa is big news every year in San Pancho. Our normally quiet and generally empty mile long beach is now full of tents and sleeping bags. And, Mexican tourists. It's strange to feel like a native compared with our weekend guests.

And Semana Santa is a weekend. A four day weekend. It started today, on Holy Thursday (Jueves Santo) and continues through Easter Sunday. Today and tomorrow, Holy Friday or Viernes Santo, are federal holidays.

The things people bring to the beach are unlimited. Temporary walls, netting, fences to mark off their beach "house", even … unbelievable but true … toilets. Real, porcelain toilets perched in the sand. (Editorial comment: disgusting!)

The peddlers on the malecon on the beach have moved their beads and bracelets, silver and leather, tiny turtles with bobbing heads, baskets and wooden boards, bedspreads and tablecloths, even crepes to the beach end of Tercera del Mundo. The last block of San Pancho's main street is closed to traffic to allow vendors a block of space for their tents and tables.

And our San Pancho restaurant and store owners are open for the holiday, unlike many in other parts of Mexico that close for the long weekend. The restaurants on the beach open earlier than usual and nightlife goes later than usual. It is not unusual to hear a loud band marching down Tercera del Mundo Avenida at midnight.

Today, however, it's fairly quiet. Just a blare of music and a wanna-be deejay from a restaurant. Fewer tourists than last year but, then, it's only the first day.

To you … pascua feliz, wherever you may be.

He was a nice dog

2010-03-01T16:01:00.003-06:00

He was one of the beach dogs ... one of those nice, friendly, starving dogs on the beach. One of the dogs looking for food, love, attention and, if they're lucky, a real home.

He was a nice dog. I don't know his name. Or if he even had a name. Fairly big, brown and white. I rather liked him and he would run and play with Oro if we were at the beach.

Curt and I headed out to Puerto Vallarta yesterday. Down Highway 200. Full of traffic, double tankers, pickup trucks carrying families and, sometimes, horses in the back. And there he was, dead on the side of the highway.

Curt said I should think about him while I was in church and I did.

Now, a lot of Mexicans don't think dogs have souls. I think if we do that dogs must as well. I thought a lot, in church and after, about that big brown and white, nice, friendly, starving beach dog that, for some reason, no one had adopted.

It sounds corny, but I hope he is in a better place ... on a big beach somewhere, with people to love him and feed him and give him a new home.

Manejese con amor

2010-02-08T15:47:00.003-06:00

How much does food cost?

That's the most frequently asked question when friends ask about Mexico. And, of course, it varies. Do we buy it in San Pancho at a small tienda or from a street vendor? Or shop the big guys like Costco and Walmart?

We shop everywhere. And, once in awhile you find unbelievable bargains. Here's our latest one. Bought in Costco, but grown in Mexico.

Toronja Roja. With the words "manejese con amor" on the box. Handle with love.

A case of red grapefruit. Seven kilos of grapefruit. Eighteen, count 'em, eighteen beautiful, big, delicious, juicy red grapefruit. The cost? Just 40 pesos, about $3 in USDollars. Some 16 cents each. Today's big bargain. Well, one of today's big bargains.

Locally, on the street, today, I bought half a kilo of strawberries for $20 pesos. Or, about a USDollar and a half for just more than a pound. Another bargain? I think so, although I don't know what they're paying in New England this time of year.

Now, I'm waiting for mango season. They fall from the trees here in San Pancho. But I'm too embarrassed to go out and gather them up like my Mexican neighbors do. I'll wait and buy them from the fruit lady at her stand up the street.

Christmas ... in July?

2010-01-29T17:55:00.001-06:00

Mexicans love paperwork. Copies. Everything in duplicate. Or, triplicate.

All proved once again when I went to renew our Post Office Box in Bucerias, about 25 miles south of San Pancho, last week.

With money in hand, I announced my purpose. I had my three hundred pesos (about $23 USD) for the year, in the exact amount, knowing that Mexican businesses and office never have change.

The postal guy pointed to a small sign above the mailboxes. The deadline was the week before, but he would allow me to renew my box. With, of course, my passport or FM3 visa, and a bill from the electric or phone company to prove where my house is.

A note for readers north of the border. We do not get mail delivery in San Pancho. So, I wanted this mail box. All the information was in their computer, but that was not sufficient. We drove home and back again. An hour round trip.

He looked at me, at my FM3, and at my electric bill. "I need copies," he said. "You can get them across the highway." A second note: this highway is two lanes in each direction with laterals on both sides.

"Nothing on this side of the highway?"

"Nothing." Aha! He noticed my cane and he himself went to the store across the highway for copies! Unbelievable!

It took many, many more minutes for him to fill out the forms in the computer, sign them, in duplicate of course, and make copies of a receipt, in triplicate.

But, I have the mailbox: Apdo 157, Bucerias, Nayarit MX 63732.

Send me a letter. Just to see if I get it. We got some Christmas cards last week. So there is hope. But the post office has bundles and boxes of undelivered mail. You would not believe how many piles and parcels.

At this rate, Christmas cards will still be coming in July.

Destroying the Jungle

2009-12-30T11:31:00.003-06:00

"It sounds," he said, "like they are destroying the jungle."

"They are," I replied.

And, they are.

Every morning we hear giant equipment plowing through the jungle where a development company is creating their version of San Pancho.

Lemmus, the public relations firm for the development, can show you plans for condos, villas, hotel, beach club, and a cultural center with music room and gym and galleries and coffee shop. All, of course, built in what was the jungle.

The development company has even stolen the nickname of our San Francisco pueblo. San Pancho. So let's call it The Development San Pancho to call attention to the fact that The Development is not the "real" San Pancho.

Oh, Lemmus the pr firm for the developers, is doing a good job promoting The Development San Pancho. There are billboards, websites, free get togethers, even signs at the polo field. There's a heavily promoted New Year's Eve party ... music, food, entertainment, fireworks ... at $100 USD per person. Guests will be bused in from Puerto Vallarta (just a 20 minute trip according to the press release ... 20 minutes? hah!).

Back to The Development. Just south of San Pancho, across the river from the real San Pancho. Goodbye jungle...you can see the gouge from atop cemetery hill. Hello lights ... at night the red hotel is brightly lit, ruining the view of the sky.

Now, another development company came to town a couple years ago. A lot of people didn't like the company, but I can say that, at least, they gave the real San Pancho some nice gifts. They built and landscaped the malecon, built the changing rooms, made improvements to the preschool, revived the vivera, built a park complete with benches, landscaping and a huge gazebo.

That company is gone. But it doesn't look like this new one is going away. Many houses, as well as the hotel and "cultural center" are already built.

But they haven't done anything that I know of to benefit our little community except plant some bougainvilleas.

Oh, they did one other thing on our side of the river. They painted the first house you see when you come into San Pancho. Painted it a bright pink, with their logo "San Pancho."

The letter h has fallen off. Maybe the rest of the letters will, too.

We Wish You a Merry

2009-12-22T10:35:00.001-06:00

You always think, or hope, that holidays are going to be special, memorable.

And, then, they all kind of blend into one year, one Christmas. You can't remember if that was 1978 or 1984, or the year that Grandma fell in the garage, or the St. Bernard ate all the Christmas cookies while you were at church.

But, in the long run, I guess the year really doesn't matter. You can always check the back of the photographs, hoping that you dated them, if it's really important. And if you didn't, you can always say, well, "Cathy looks about 4", or "Chris was just a baby."

There was the year the St. Bernard ate all the turkey drippings and belched about the time the static electricity hit her, causing the gas that had built up inside to explode, burning off her eye lashes and whiskers. We remembered that holiday, if not the year. So did Brandy, if dogs have memories.

Christmas trees sort of all run together, too, after awhile. The same decorations, collected year after year. The tree with the birds nest in it. The tree that had long needles. The tree that lost all the needles before Christmas. The year it fell off the top of the Jeep in front of Daly Chevrolet.

The years when we ran fish wire from the top of the Christmas tree to the ceiling, so the cats wouldn't fell the tree when they attempted to climb it. The year we didn't wire it, the year the tree fell, crashing across the glass coffee table.

There was the 20-foot Christmas tree the year I told the guy to deliver one that went to the highest point of the Cathedral ceiling. He called the office and said he'd delivered in the driveway, but he sure didn't know how I was going to get it in the house.

It weighed more than any two, or three, people could possibly handle. So we recruited our neighbors, strong teens, to help us shove it into the house through the sliding glass door.

The borrowed boys helped Curt and me get it upright, and it did, indeed, touch the top of the cathedral ceiling. A Christmas tree stand just wouldn't hold it. So we got a bucket from the garage to stand it in, and Curt sent me off to the hardware store, while he and the helpers stood by holding the tree up, to get sand, to weight the bucket down.

The closest hardware store didn't have sand. Being creative, I bought a bag of sacrete. And hauled it home, and into the house.

Never send a woman to buy sand. Curt was not happy. Sacrete was not the answer. It would get wet, it would clog up the bottom of the tree, you couldn't water the tree, it was a dumb idea. He wanted sand. I could either hold up the tree, or go get sand. Off into the darkness to the next hardware store for sand.

"What kind of sand?" the young clerk asked.

"Any kind of sand, please, and fast," I replied, as the clerk started listing options.

"Coarse sand, fine sand, sandbox sand...what are you going to use it for."

"Any bag will do...heavy sand! But make it a big bag. Maybe two bags. It has to hold the Christmas tree up. And, while you're getting it, get me a half dozen 8-inch bolts, at least 8 inches, longer if you've got 'em."

"Lady, I won't even ask why."

Home again, with sand, lots of sand, and the precious bolts. We filled the bucket with the sand, but the tree still wouldn't stand alone.

I held the tree. Curt constructed braces, big ones out of long boards, in a teepee effect, which he bolted through the carpeting, right into the floor.

We decorated that mammoth tree with every single decoration we'd ever collected, and it looked magnificent. Visitors were awestruck. We enjoyed hours of sitting around on the floor near that tree. We had to sit on the floor because we had to move most of the furniture out of the living room to make room for the tree.

Reality hit, shortly after New Years. Hauling the tree in was a lot easier than it was going to be to haul that tree out. The branches had been tightly bound to the trunk on the way in. Now they were full and billowing. And, well, it wouldn't, couldn't, go out the door.

Santa to the rescue! He'd left a chainsaw for Curt, and it was put to use sawing the tree into manageable pieces. In fact, the entire family spent most of the day sawing the tree into pieces and hauling it to the curb, then vacuuming the remains.

No, not this year. One of those was enough for a lifetime.

So we just added some new memories this year and, a Christmas we'll remember forever. Just like your Christmas.

Did I tell you that all animals can talk at midnight on Christmas Eve? If, and only if, there aren't any people around to hear them?

It's true. I learned it, well I think it was about 1945, and....

Merry Christmas!

Please pass the gravy

2009-11-26T08:44:00.003-06:00

(Note: This is a rerun, written several years ago, in Massachusetts, where the Hahns celebrate the Saturday before Thanksgiving. It has nothing to do with San Pancho, obviously, but I thought you'd enjoy it.)

We’re off to Athol today. Athol, of all places. It’s just that you can’t get there from here.

You have to go through the Quabbin or around it. The former is impossible, so the first conversation of the trip is…take the scenic route? Or Routes 91 and 2?
We’ll get there by noon, either route, just in time to join all of the other Hahns, who are celebrating Thanksgiving today.

This family that I married into can make three turkeys disappear in less than an hour. And that’s only a couple dozen people. Three turkeys.

Niece Cindy, who for some reason volunteers to host the other Hahns each year, and Nephew Murray, who may have joined the family by marriage but eats like a true Hahn and who would probably much rather be on the golf course today, no matter what the weather, reminded us of how much food everyone is assigned to bring.

Including those three turkeys. Cindy will do two in her good old fashioned turkey roasters and our son, Chris, will set the backyard on fire boiling another in hot oil, southern style. His cousins will, once again, chide him for buying what they call a cheapo propane burner, which is why the fire won’t light. But, by dinnertime, bird three will be done.

Of course, by dinnertime, several dozen appetizers will disappear. Cindy complained that she didn’t get any last year. She’ll have to talk to her brothers and cousins about that, as I thought Curt and I took enough for 75 or 80 people.

"We appreciate any contributions of food, drink, manpower and brainpower you are willing to make," Cindy wrote. "Here is the list of what I anticipate is needed for the Hungry Hahns! I have included last year's menu and who contributed each item."
Those turkeys and stuffing headed the list. Then, squash. Hey, David, Cindy said there wasn’t any left last year. Maybe you should bring more.

Gravy. The Hahn family’s favorite beverage. No matter how much is made there’s never enough. "And yes," Cindy wrote, "I already have bought extra flour so I don't have to run to my neighbor's and borrow some at the last minute. Do we need gravy master?"
They never let me make the gravy, for which I am eternally thankful. And so are they. I have no idea what gravy master is. All I know that any gravy I attempt has to be put through a strainer.

Don’t forget the potatoes, Dave. Last year you brought 50 pounds. One casserole dish of potatoes was left over. And, Dave, your sister hopes you will bring your gas burner and pressure cooker to cook them. Then you get to mash them.

I think, Dave, you should tell your sister you’re doing enough. Making the gravy, bringing the squash, and doing the potatoes.

Evie, Cindy’s mother, is assigned the cranberry sauce. (I hope she brings the one with the orange rind and nuts in it.) Evie also brings the green bean casserole each year.
Last year only one dozen dinner rolls disappeared. I think I ate most of them. They were invented by another Hahn, Patti Wong Hahn, who works at Pillsbury.

Jonathon, Cathy, Chris and Jen brought the beer and wine. There was some wine leftover but all the beer was gone, Cindy wrote. I don’t think she knew about the Stoli at the bar. That was all gone, too.

We have to have dessert. No one wants to go home hungry, after all. So, to put under the ice cream, Peggy and Tracy made nine pies. Chocolate, pecan, apple, mince, all the favorites.

There’s also the Slovak kolache that Evie brings to round out the dessert table.
Sammie and Jessie will do table favors and place cards. Billy will help, if they let him. I guess Aidan’s the only one without a job. But he’s only three.
Cindy will say grace.

It’s really our annual Hahn family gathering, as well as our Thanksgiving.
And I’m thankful for the opportunity to share a meal with the people I love.

I hope your Thanksgiving is full of love, as well.

Bumper cars on Tercera del Mundo

2009-11-25T15:28:00.002-06:00

Okay, I did it. I demolished the bumper on our car.

Thanks to the building of a new Tercera del Mundo (the main street in San Pancho), I ripped that sucker right off. Well, not totally off. Just enough off to make the parking lights point down at the street. Just enough so the car scrapes on every bump in the road. Just enough so the bumper isn't safely attached to the car.

Construction crews removed the old pavement in a three block stretch at the end of our street. They scraped it pretty smooth, so you could drive on the dirt. Then, one morning, there was a flood in the dirt part.

I drove through the water and at the end of the dirt, drive smack into what was left of Tercera del Mundo, where they hadn't removed any of the street. The dirt being significantly lower than the concrete caused me to, as I said, demolish the bumper.

Do I feel stupid? Yes. Did I have any choice if I wanted to drive to anywhere? No. Is it easy to fix? Well, yes, if you like buying a totally new bumper which, with paint, comes to just under the deductible on the insurance. Of course.

I was reading the book "No Time for Tact" the other day. Author Larry Winget wrote:

"Remember that everything that happens to you causes you to grow in some way--even the lousy stuff. In fact, especially the lousy stuff. Be thankful for the lesson even when you find it hard to be thankful for the lousy stuff that caused it."

Normally, I'd find this dumb advice. How does a lousy bumper ruined on a lousy road make me thankful for the lousy stuff Winget talks about? I don't know.

But, because it is Thanksgiving week, I'll think about it. Maybe I can be thankful it happened. But I doubt it.

Burglarized in broad daylight

2009-11-24T10:30:00.003-06:00

When she asked me my religion, I wondered what that had to do with being burglarized.

"It's just on every government form," I was told. Okay, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yesterday I was at the Ministerio Publico, sort of a police station in Bucerias, trying to fill out a form telling the police that we had been burglarized last Saturday, in broad daylight, between 10 a.m. and noon.

"Why didn't you call the Judge in San Pancho?" the woman in charge asked. "I did," I replied, "but there was no answer."

"Then why didn't you come here?" she continued. "Because I didn't know this was here," I replied. In fact, I admitted, I didn't know who to call or where to go. But I do now.

So she continued. After I went out to find the friend of a friend who spoke both English and Spanish. This was getting complicated and ended up taking two hours. Where was I born? Passport number? Married? What did you study in school? (I'm telling you, some of these questions were not relevant!)

So, while she typed all the information into a computer, we told her the story. The what, where and when. Front door broken open. Money, jewelry, camera, Kindle -- all missing. The descriptions.

And, yes, Saturday morning in broad daylight. No, the dog wasn't home. He went with us to the vet and to the grocery store in Bucerias.

I still don't have a copy of the four page report because two evidently important men had not yet signed it. By the way, my interpreter and I, both had to have two copies of our identification and we both were fingerprinted!

Now what? Probably nothing.

The office at the Ministerio Publico is stacked high with reports and folders and God only know what else and how old. The chances of getting anything returned are slim and none. The chance of arresting anyone? Even slimmer, according to a high state police official. And even if arrested, they'd probably be free before the paperwork is finished. And, if held, held where? All the jails in Nayarit are full.

So, were my two hours wasted? No. Not if this will warn my friends and neighbors to be more careful about locking doors and windows. Not if this alerts the state police and reminds the judge that, yes, we have a problem in San Pancho.

No one wants to talk publicly about all this. No one wants to scare away the tourists. So my friends will be angry with me for blogging about it.

But this rash of burglaries is starting all across southern Nayarit state, according to the state police. You don't want to be the next victim.

So, be vigilant. The thieves are getting more brazen.

And if anyone offers you some Susan B. Anthony dollar coins, they're mine!

Malecon has the blues

2009-11-03T17:08:00.003-06:00

San Pancho had a beautiful malecon on the beach, courtesy of a development company that added a mural, plants, lamp posts, benches, even changing rooms. For a year, they watered the flowers, trimmed the trees, swept the leaves. Yes, it was beautiful. Past tense.

Since the development company turned it over to the pueblo, to San Pancho, no one has been taking care of it. So, with no one to protect, or clean, or even just maintain it, the malecon is no longer beautiful.

A lamp post broke off last week. Vandalism? Rust? I don't know. And, earlier, the changing rooms were destroyed. Vandalism, for sure.

But the latest incident is neither rust nor vandalism. Someone painted the concrete base that the figure of San Francisco stands on. And they painted it a very dark blue. Someone even started to paint some of the concrete planters blue.

Thinking of the future, when the paint cracks and fades, when we can no longer see stone or concrete, I can only hope that the paint can be, and will be, removed.

Frankly, it is ugly. And this town, that heavily relies on tourism, deserves better.

And, if you're the ones that painted it ... shame, shame on you.

It's all about verbage

2009-10-29T09:22:00.002-06:00

Word lovers cringe when a noun (like task) is turned into a verb ("I've been tasked to take out the garbage").

Now comes ... coffeed.

From a waitress at a restaurant ... "You will all be coffeed in just a minute."

Coffeed? How about being "tead" or "watered" or "milked" at breakfast? Maybe "egged" and "baconed."

Oh, never mind.

Watch out for the bull!

2009-09-26T12:27:00.002-05:00

It all started today, predawn and at first light, the biggest celebration San Pancho has. It will be loud from today through Sunday the third of October. San Pancho Days!

San Pancho … short for San Francisco … named to honor Saint Francis of Assissi, the patron saint who must be celebrating with a smile this week.

The pueblo is divided into seven areas, with each neighborhood responsible for the parade held each evening. Although there are lots of marchers wearing white and carrying flowers, fireworks, lots of music, the parade is really a walk on the way to church, where a mass is held. The walk is always led by a float with, of course, Saint Francis. On the last day the locally worshiped Virgin of Tintoc arrives, as does a torch from Guadalahara.

Neighborhoods are also responsible for the entertainment in the main plaza each night. Folklorico, Ballet, Mariachis, circus performers … something different every night. Some local talent, some professional.

Around the plaza? Lots of stands selling beverages, food and souvenirs. For the kids … a set of carnival rides. And they’ve painted a mural of Saint Francis on the wall behind the stage.

On the last day the locally worshiped Virgin of Tintoc arrives, as does a torch carried from Guadalahara and a host of charros on horseback.

If you’re going, you might want to take a chair … but, most of all, watch out for the bull!

Will they go home to roost?

2009-09-25T20:16:00.004-05:00

Opened my office door the other day just in time to see a chicken flying down the hall ... chased by a large golden dog!

I grabbed the dog, put him in the office, closed he door and went to find Curt.

"What's going on," he asked.

"There's a chicken in the house, in the front hall."

"A chicken?"

"Yes, a chicken."

Well Curt grew up with chickens and, unafraid, went to look. "It's not a chicken. It's a rooster."

"Chicken, rooster, I want it out of the house."

Curt, using his best youthful, chicken-chasing techniques, chased the bird back down the hall, out into the garden. After a short while, with the bird enjoying our yard, Curt grabbed him.

And tossed him over the fence.

Alas, the rooster likes us. The next afternoon he returned to enjoy the garden and our tall wall.

Then, went to wherever roosters go to roost.

Banana Man

2009-09-22T10:58:00.002-05:00

In San Miguel de Allende the man who sharpened knives peddled his bike up and down each street. To be sure you knew he was coming, he used a high pitched whistle.

So when I heard that same whistle here in San Pancho, I grabbed my biggest kitchen knives, hopped in the car, and went to find the knife sharpener.

Driving through our San Pancho neighborhood, I followed the whistle, rather like a steam whistle, and found him.

He wasn't busy so I thrust my biggest knives at him, using my poor Spanish to explain what I wanted. He looked rather startled! And I took the time to notice empty banana peels on the front of his cart.

He was not a knife sharper at all. He was selling steamed bananas.

Quite embarrased, I took my knives back and left quickly.

Curt said I, at the very least, could have bought a banana.

Count Your Change

2009-09-06T13:53:00.002-05:00

It happened again, just as it happens all too frequently.

Not here in San Pancho, I hasten to add. But in surrounding towns and, especially, at gas stations.

Last night, at a drug store, I spent $134 pesos and gave the clerk a 500 peso bill. My change should have been 366 pesos. I received 126.

As soon as the 126 pesos were in my hand, my 500 bill went into the cash register, the 134 disappeared from the cash register's face, and she started to walk away.

"Mi cambio," I said. And she opened the cash register, took the 500 and went to get change.

I got the 200 pesos owed me ... and some more change. But was still short 20 pesos. Because I stood there with my hand out, my change in it, asking for the bill itself, she dropped the other 20 in my hand.

This scam usually happens at gas stations. So always count your change there.

Come to think of it. Just always count your change.

El Brigade Dengue

2009-08-08T12:02:00.002-05:00

Now it's mosquitoes we have to worry about.

They're not only bothersome, they could be dangerous if they carry dengue fever. Usually found in the tropics, there are two versions of the fever, with one--the hemorrhagic variety--that can be fatal. The other variety makes you ache all over. Ache so bad it is dubbed "breakbone" fever.

There are two ways to avoid dengue fever, which is spread only by mosquitoes, not human to human. The first is eradication.

When we lived in a suburb of Detroit, the city sprayed for mosquitoes. First, however, they warned everyone to get their cars under cover or in the garage. That was Detroit for you, a Detroit that always worried about cars first.

In another state, they warned everyone to keep their kids and pets indoors while an airplane sprayed the city.

Here, I don't think we have had any warnings, although we did see the Brigade Dengue truck yesterday. And, last night, late, they sprayed the pueblo, going street by street.

The Brigade Dengue also sent a clipboard brigade into the city, reportedly to survey properties for standing water. We weren't home, so we have some sort of a code chalked on the front of our house. No one seems to know what it means, so I won't worry about it.

That is step one. The second is to avoid the mosquitoes, by wearing long pants and long sleeves (no way, not in our 105 degree heat index weather). Or, by using repellent. Pass the Autan! It "protege contra picaduras de insectos y cuida la piel." Or, it protects against insect bites and protects the skin.

So, mosquitoes ... yes, something to worry about.

Goodbye, Gecko

2009-08-06T13:44:00.001-05:00

Chica, the semi-Siamese, is eating a gecko. Funny thing. I don't care. We have a lot of geckos, so even though this is one of the longer ones, and a beautiful green, I don't care.

We have a lot of creatures here in San Pancho. Friends are bothered by the local version of raccoons. Other friends have rats. ln San Miguel we went so far as to (forgive me) poison the squirrels and the fire ants.

Here in San Pancho ... mostly geckos, frogs, crabs (large and small); the baby opossum in the pool; the huge (well, huge to me) iguana in my office. Five scorpions in our two and a half years in San Pancho. Not bad.

But. The exterminator comes next week. We have several palapas--high pointed roofs made of palm leaves. And last night was the last straw. (Last palm leaf?)

Sitting in my arm chair, watching the tv and kaboom! Something fell out of the palapa. A lizard of the type not seen in our San Pancho house before. Chubby. Grey. Curtito pooh-pood my scream as it ran under his chair.

An hour later ... he leaped out of his arm chair yelling "It's running down my leg." Another lizard, out of the palapa into his lap.

Like I said. Chica eating the gecko doesn't bother me. But ... the exterminator comes next week.

Mexican logic

2009-07-03T15:10:00.000-05:00

At the cashier today, in Mega, there were two frying pans among the groceries. A six-inch and an eight-inch. Nothing special. Just teflon. Fairly cheap, according to the sign in housewares.

Ooops, one didn't have a bar code, so an assistant was sent to housewares to get a different one. She took both of my chosen pans with her, but returned with only one.

Of course, I told her I wanted two ... where was the other one?

"You can't buy it, it doesn't have a price tag."

Crazy.

Who's wearing the masks?

2009-07-02T14:25:00.000-05:00

The Commonwealth of Massachusetts just had its fourth swine flu death. That's two more than the Mexican State of Nayarit, where we live.

Yes, I know, Mexico was blamed for starting this whole flu mess, although I don't think Mexico should own any blame. And it's H1N1, to take some blame off of the pigs.

And, I think, Mexico handled this whole flu thing much better than the United States. For starters, all schools were closed, countrywide, even in this little fishing village of ours where we haven't had a single case of flu. Bars and restaurants were closed in most major and many smaller cities and towns, to keep people from gathering in crowds in case the flu spread.

Flying to Boston at the height of the panic, on a flight reserved months before, there were only a few signs of concern.

Most doors to the Puerta Vallarta airport were closed, with passengers directed to the only open door, where we were greeted by a three person medical team. At least, they looked medical, all dressed in white.

First, passengers filled out a form saying if you had a fever, cough, sore throat, aches and pains, vomiting, etc in previous days. Then, a temperature was taken by the most modern thermometer I've ever seen. It was a round disk, almost like the little flashlights eye doctors use, held about an inch from the forehead. (We passed, with 37.5 degrees C.)

That was it. None of the airline workers wore masks. I saw only three passenger on our airplane, a family of three, wearing masks and they all looked a little wierd, masks or no masks.

Everyone acted normal. Like any other day on any other plane.

But people in New England didn't act so normal if we mentioned we had just traveled up from Mexico. An old New Hampshire Yankee, selling plants along the road, physically jumped back four feet when he found out we'd been south of the border two days earlier.

And that was the reaction of everybody we told. Backing away, turning away, afraid that we were carrying the flu with us.

Maybe Mexicans should jump away when they find out we've been in Massachusetts.

Flush, flush, flush

2009-06-29T11:20:00.000-05:00

Never have so many had to go so often. You might call the trip a flushing success. I'm talking people in line, six deep, waiting to go go go.

If you ever have the chance, the awful opportunity, to sit in row 29 in a 29 row plane, cancel the flight. Refuse the offer.

That is where, of course, the two bathrooms are. And there are about 200 people in a B737. That's what the where-the-exits-are book called it. A B737. Should have been a GO737.

And why, you ask, your dark eyes flashing, would the parents of a long-wailing youngster think that passengers may be less infuriated if they moved to the back of the plane? To stand next to, you guessed it, Row 29.

Do the seats get smaller the farther back in the airplane? Or is it that your left side, aisle seat, is merely cramped by others' butts leaning on the arm? Is it because these seats won't recline?

Is there something in people's heads that make them get up and go to the bathroom when the captain announces that it's rough weather, seatbelt time, and to please "take your seats"?

And how many times can one person possibly need to use the bathroom between Dallas and Boston? Let's just say there were many "frequent" flyers.

And, by the way, how do you flush the darn things?

Sometimes You Just Can't Help Stupid

2009-06-10T16:44:00.000-05:00

If you call American Express with a question or a problem and "Bambi" answers, hang up. I can't even explain her ... it would take too many words. But anyone with the name of Bambi probably doesn't have all the answers. Or, any answers.

Today ... another young woman out-stupided Bambi. A phone call, on our vonage (Boston) number:

Hello ...

"Hi, I'm calling from the Boston Globe to see if you'd like to subscribe to the Globe. We've lowered the price to $7.75 a week. We can start home delivery right away. Where do you live?"

I'm in San Pancho. Mexico.

"Mexico?"

Yes, I am in Mexico!

"Would you like to start a subscription?"

I don't think you would deliver a Globe to Mexico.

"Let me check with my supervisor." (60 seconds of quiet waiting).

"No, she tells me we don't have any carriers there."

Duh.

What a Difference a Year Makes

2009-04-13T12:48:00.000-05:00

One year ago today, I had a colostomy.

It was a surprise. Pain in the night. Severe pain. Xrays, catscan, surgeons, emergency surgery. Part of my colon had ruptured.

A colostomy is when surgeons divert a part of the colon into an artificial opening in the abdominal wall. Putting it bluntly, your poop is diverted from your anus to a hole, or stoma, that they make on your stomach area.

This means wearing a bag attached to your abdomen, a bag that collects all of your body's waste, to put it politely. Every so often you have to either remove the bag and replace it, or empty it. The process depends on which method you choose.

My first reaction a year ago today was fear. I was alone in a renown Boston hospital and it was the middle of the night.

Only later did I realize that I was incredibly lucky, since I was already in the hospital awaiting a skin graft for a large leg wound. The rupture could have proven fatal if care was delayed.

After awakening from surgery in intensive care, I was told that I had a colostomy. I cried. And I cry today writing this, remembering the day that would change my daily habits. Even my self assurance. I cried a lot last year. In fact, I cried every time I talked about the colostomy.

Naturally, you learn how to "change the bag." Suddenly, the nurses aren't changing the bag. You are. You learn to accept the fact that you are handling your own shit every single day. You start to feel ... degraded, depressed, disgusted.

(I just noticed ... I have gone from "I" to "you," perhaps depersonalizing the whole situation? I don't know, it just happened.)

Another surgery ... the awaited skin graft. All goes well. But you still have the bag. You go to Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital. The bags go with you.

Back home to Mexico. The bags go with you. But customs stops the shipment you ordered. It takes weeks to get more supplies.

You wonder if people can see the bag under your clothes. You wear baggy pants and choose new underwear that will better hold the bag in place.

The bathroom gets to be very familiar. These bags smell when removed, so you double wrap them in garbage bags. The maid tosses the garbage bags out the bathroom window, to the garbage can below, so she doesn't have to carry them through the house. We called them "shit bombs." We could finally joke about it.

And now, it's gone. Last Halloween surgeons reversed the colostomy. "Taking it down," is how they phrased it.

There was a lot of healing to be done after two major surgeries, as well as the skin graft. A few other problems along the way.

But, today, 30 pounds lighter and a lot happier than I was a year ago today, I can finally talk about, write about, and now forget about the colostomy. There's nothing left but the scars.

Food that tastes like food

2009-04-03T11:27:00.000-06:00

Another reason to love living in Mexico. Fresh fruit and vegetables that taste good and cost little.

This morning, at the local fruit lady's place, I spent 82 pesos, or the equivalent of $5.95 in USDollars.

For that, I got ... 8 eggs, 4 large carrots, 2 mangos, a large stalk of broccoli, 4 large potatoes, a pineapple, 2 bananas, 2 tomatoes and a cucumber.

At the front door this morning, I bought two kilos of strawberries (that's 2.2 pounds) for 20 pesos (about $1.45 USD).

Of course fruit lady and strawberry guy aren't the only folks that come to the door. My favorite is the bread lady ... piles of fresh donuts, sweet rolls, jelly rolls, dinner rolls, all about 22 cents each, in the back of her covered truck bed.

And don't forget furniture guy, woven blinds guy, steamed banana guy, fish guy, shrimp guy, cold drinks guy, tamale guy ... well, I've forgotten the entire list, but each and everyone had delivered a good product at a very fair price. Like, two kilos of shrimp for l00 pesos ($7.25 USD).

Ahhh ... Mexico!

Okay, Greta, I'm angry

2009-03-12T13:09:00.000-06:00

It's the last straw. One tv show too many warning Americans about the dangers of Mexico.

Last night ... Greta Van Susteren, in her closing interview with a reporter from USNews, let the guy ramble on about gunfire, missing heads, grenades, murders, kidnappings and all the bloody things that will scare every tourist available away from Mexico.

Greta, Greta, Greta ... you are better than that. You could have asked him questions about specific crimes, the cause, are tourist areas in danger, is Cancun safe for spring break, comparison of Mexican crime vs. US crime.

Only at the last second did Greta ask him if the problems were all over Mexico. He had to admit that, no, many areas are safe.

Go tell that to your friends and neighbors. Many areas are safe. Yes, there is a US government advisory warning tourists of the dangers in Mexico. Yes, there is a narco vs. good guys war going on. But most of Mexico is not involved.

From our small, peaceful fishing village of San Pancho, on the Pacific, an hour north of Puerto Vallarta, the violence is far away, generally along the US/Mexico border. Generally among members of rival drug cartels or between the military and the cartels.

North of Puerto Vallarta there is a military checkpoint, where armed soldiers choose which cars and trucks to search for drugs or guns. Occasionally we see truckloads of soldiers heading north to the border, but otherwise we live without worrying about violence.

Every major city in the US has dangerous areas that you just don't go to and Mexico has areas that you just don't go to, if you use your common sense. Ciudad Juarez, Tijuana, Nuevo Laredo. Don't go there. And don't get involved in using drugs, or guns, in Mexico--both are illegal.

Remember these three things ... the guns and weapons used in this drug war are generally provided by illegal gun-runners in the US ... the drugs that are so incredibly valuable that cartels are fighting for control of the trade are destined for the US ... and, the Mexican president has declared war on the narcos, a laudable goal but a cause of additional violence.

Oh, yes, remember this fourth thing ... most of Mexico is a safe place to visit.

A black market ... in babies

2008-09-29T13:38:00.000-05:00

My favorite pediatrician is in Puerto Vallarta. Now, obviously, I don't have a baby, but I have a young friend with a baby.

When I took her and the baby to the doctor for his two month checkup, the doctor not only examined, weighed, and measured the baby, but gave the mother a list of things she should be doing for her baby at that age.

Most were pretty simple ... spend time singing to the baby ... talk to the baby ... put pictures around his crib so he has something to look at and think about ... hang a mobile.

And ... don't throw the baby up in the air.

The doctor noted that the baby should be smiling and holding his head up at this age.

So far, so good. Everything was in Spanish, but I understood everything. Except the last line.

"IMPORTANTE: No descidar a su nino pueden secuestrarlo."

That, the doctor said, means "don't leave your baby with someone you don't know very well. They could kidnap it. And you will never see him again."

This ties in with a recent story out of San Miguel de Allende, where a woman took a baby out of a stroller at the new mall and took off with him. She grabbed a taxi and ordered the cabbie to go to Mexico City, but the cab was stopped because someone saw the kidnapping, got the license plate number and the police arrived in time to save the baby.

A black market in babies. Something you don't think about very often.

Trigger, Jezabell, Blackie ... and friends

2008-09-04T11:12:00.000-05:00

You know you're getting used to a new village when you start recognizing the dogs ... and knowing them by name.

Among my favorites are Trigger and Jezabell. Generally together, and usually playing on the beach, you can tell they are best friends. Trigger is a large, let's just say "well fed," Dalmatian type. Jezabell is a big, blond Golden Retriever.

They spend the better part of each day running in and out of the ocean, resting on the beach, wrestling in the sand and waiting for their owner to come down with leashes when it's time to go home.

But Jezabell has taken to visiting San Pancho's beauty parlor, where a new, tiny Chihuahua puppy named Blackie has taken up residence. Jezabell seems to think that Blackie is her puppy. And Blackie seems happy to let Jezabell think so. Jezabell, of indeterminate age, but not young, is willing to let the puppy climb all over her, and she rolls around on her back to oblige. Then gently licks the puppy and plays some more.

There's a black dog named Negra, who generally travels with her owner while he works. One day on the beach I asked a friend if a black dog was Negra. He said "no, it's just another black dog." Which seems to be the favored color of the family of dogs that spend their days sleeping in the street on Tercera del Mundo. (Black dogs may be second in number only to the number of small white poodles in San Pancho.)

Then, there's the Gang of Three, led by Roxy. Chihuahuas, who fear nothing. Cute, definitely cute. But for little dogs, they sure make a lot of noise.

But, I digress. Back to my favorite dogs.

Kahlua. A big black curly hairy Doodle. That's sort of like a bear. She loves being in front of the fan, and loves to eat.

And she just might be the best friend of our dog, Oro. A tall blond Mexican Mestizo rescued from the countryside near San Miguel.

You'll see Oro most mornings, as he walks my best friend through the streets of San Pancho.

Stress? In San Pancho?

2008-07-06T17:18:00.000-05:00

A nurse in a hospital recently was doing a survey ... you know, medical history, prescriptions, operations. Questions about activities, memory. And, stress?

"How do you handle stress?" she asked. And I couldn't answer right away.

"Stress in traveling to Boston the week before?" No, no stress. Everything went smoothly. I was just glad to get there for some surgery.

"Stress at home?"

In San Pancho? I couldn't think of any stress. No kidding. With plenty of time to do whatever I want ... reading, computering, swimming. Going to the beach. Seeing friends. Volunteering. Shopping.

No Boston prices. Plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables.

No hurry to get anywhere. No big city traffic. We laugh at the Mexican drivers, macho enough to pass you on the highway on a blind curve. We can't get mad...or stressed. It just happens.

The dog, the cats. Okay, so the semi-Siamese knows how to climb the wall and escape. We got her a collar and tag so people won't think she's a stray.

I don't have to clean, or do laundry, or iron, or vacuum. I don't have to wash dishes or load or unload the dishwasher. I don't even have to make the bed.

"No, no stress in San Pancho," I told the nurse. "So I don't have to deal with stress."

I don't think she believed me.

Being a "Fallen Woman"

2008-06-10T17:35:00.000-05:00

San Miguel de Allende has such bumpiy cobblestone streets and narrow sidewalks that it's most likely that you will trip and take a tumble sooner or later. Some folks call it the city of "fallen women."

Well, I've fallen there, I've fallen here in San Pancho, and I've fallen around the world. Most notably into a hole where a large tree had been removed in Venezuela and sliding along the icy winter sidewalk in front of an open restaurant in Barcelona.

Last summer, I fell in Puerto Vallarta, tripping over a tope, or speed bump. That sent me to Cornerstone Hospital for stitches in my lip and repair of three teeth. It could have been worse.

After getting a new knee last year, I started falling. My kneecap was not doing what kneecaps are supposed to do, tossing me to the ground in my house, in the street and on the beach.

All minor falls, although I guess I could be called a "fallen woman," San Miguel or San Pancho.

Just over a year ago, I fell in our home in San Miguel Viejo, on a step that was taller than the other steps, just a tiny bit, but enough to trip me up. Which gets me to the point of the story.

I just spent a month in Boston's Massachusetts General Hospital. I went to get a skin graft over the large hole, a hole that I had hoped would heal itself. But it didn't. MGH had done similar surgery on my other leg two years ago and I went knowing they could patch me up again.

I was admitted and treated for other problems (severe anemia, things like that) and was waiting for surgery when, in the middle of the night, early on a Sunday morning, stabbing pains in my side sent me into emergency surgery.

"If we're lucky," the doctor said, "it's your appendix."

We were not lucky. It was a perforated bowel, resulting in a colostomy. And five days in intensive care.

Ah, yes, the next week, the long-awaited skin graft.

And then, a week in Spaulding Rehab Hospital, learning how to walk again, with cane and walker.

A few thank yous ...

I cannot praise the staffs at both MGH and Spaulding enough. Words like fabulous or wonderful aren't enough. Special thanks to a nurse named Randy--he was the one that knew something was seriously wrong when I told him of the pain.

And wonderful friends, who called, e-mailed, sent cards. Especially my college roommate, Cathy, who called every few days. Whose sense of humor and common sense kept me going. And Joe, the elderly friend who let me move in with him for a week and a half while I recuperated.

Most of all, my family. My adult children who visited and took me home and delivered me to the airport. And with whom I spent Mothers Day surroundied by all four grandchildren. And, my husband, home with the dog, worried about me, always willing to talk and encourage me.

Maybe I'm writing this for myself, maybe not for you. Sort of a way to forget the depression, the degrading feelings after the surgery. Maybe just because I haven't written anything in three months and it's a rainy day and I thought I would.

And I promise not to fall this year. In any country.

Meat, Real Meat

2008-03-22T15:50:00.000-06:00

Call it the luck of the Irish ... or the luck of Saint Patrick's Day. We actually got a real piece of corned beef that day!

Now all you of U.S. supermarket users may not think this a big deal. But, it is.

Here is Mexico the pork and chicken are the best we've ever eaten. But beef? Uh, uh. Never bought a good piece yet.

So, imagine walking into a butcher shop on Saint Patrick's Day and having the butcher pull a piece right out of the briney bucket! Okay, the price was a little high, but maybe US prices match it by now. I don't know.

And, that's not all!

He had just slaughtered three lambs and had lamb for sale (another rarity). Of course we had a loin cut into lamb chops for my birthday.

And, corned beef and lamb are back on the menu.

Along with some other great cuts of beef. The place is Carne del Mundo, Meat of the World, in Bucerias, Jalisco State, Mexico.

The butcher is our new best friend!

No sex scandals here

2008-03-16T11:56:00.000-06:00

Hey, Eliot, come on down to Mexico!

As a prominent doctor told me, "we don't have sex scandals down here. It's just understood that men with extra sex partners is so common that nobody cares." What we do have," he continued, "are money scandals." Everyone is high office seems to be on the take.

And, Eliot, prostitution is legal in Mexico!

In fact, when we lived in San Miguel de Allende, we knew of at least two brothels, or nocturnos ... one near the boys orphanage and another in Los Frailes.

So, Eliot, come on down!

Round and round again

2008-02-16T15:09:00.000-06:00

Did you know you can't get a credit card in Mexico if you are over 60? Maybe 62?

We had a purchase we wanted to make. The online retailer said they couldn't let us use a U.S. credit card and have the product delivered in Mexico.

So we put the required amount of money in our Mexican bank account and called the retailer again ... to use our debit card. Ooops! Debit card had to be scanned at the retailer, and you sure can't scan it by telephone.

Off to apply for a credit card only to find out we are both too old. No worries about age discrimination here!

So, we mailed a check.

More about stoves, pinatas, cats, geckoes, roosters, the frog & more

2008-01-18T15:13:00.000-06:00

So where, someone asked, is the stove? Still in the hall?

No, I didn't have to cover it with a tablecloth and call it a Christmas tree stand afterall. The store, finally, came for it and we are now thoroughly enjoying our GE.

The geckoes? Can't find any this month. Maybe they hibernate, or sleep, when it's cooler. Frogs, too? Since our frog, that comes to the kitchen, my office and front hall, can't be found either.

Our ladron, thief Chica, has outdone her self. She got into Curt's closet, stole all his socks, and gave them to the dog. Oro ate parts of all of them, even the Christmas socks.

The roosters are still next door. Even more of them. Unfortunately (for the roosters) they are for sale. I can only guess what end they will meet. The sign in Sayulita says "cockfights every Sunday."

We can buy even more at the front door now ... we added chairs and empanadas, this week.

And the pinata, the beautiful burro-ito. We finally realized it wouldn't be too cool to have our three-year-old grandaughter watch us beat it to pieces. So we dumped it upside down to free all the candy.

And now you know ... the rest of the story.

There's a thief in the house

2008-01-11T11:35:00.000-06:00

Yes, a ladron, a thief.

Last night she stole two washcloths from a bathroom, two dinner napkins from atop the microwave, a cleaning cloth from the laundry and ... Well, she steals a lot of things.

And brings them to us, even if it means carrying them up a flight of stairs, dragging them between her front paws. She succeeded once in hauling a complete sheepskin up a flight of stairs. When she arrives with the treasures she meows loud enough to wake us up so we can say "thank you".

She is Chica ("small"), our semi-Siamese, rescue cat.

When we got her from the San Miguel animal shelter she was the last of a litter of 10 tiny kittens abandoned by their mother. The shelter said they were Himalayan but her marks are Siamese-like. Except for her white tuxedo chest, so-called snow shoe feet (i.e. white). And a wide white "smile" permanently on her face.

Her sister cat Cana (means "white hair") is also a rescue cat, saved by a friend and adopted by us. We've had both almost three years now and Cana is not a thief. She much prefers to be busy sleeping on the second floor balcony wall in the sun. And hopefully she will not take another two-story fall into the palm below.

Here are our cat friends --

A Hot Christmas Gift

2007-12-22T13:55:00.000-06:00

The little boy next door gave Curt a lollipop yesterday.

Called elote, meaning corn, the sucker part was shaped like an ear of corn and covered with ... hot chili pepper! Inside was a strawberry sucker.

And, inside of that ... covering the stick ... more chili pepper.

We won't put one in our grand daughter's pinata. No, we'll stick to candy canes and Hershey kisses and some peppermints, too.

The pinata couldn't be better! Hand made just for us, it is a beautiful white burro, about three feet tall, with bright Christmas ribbons around its neck. Curt is hanging it over the hall where she can smash away with abandon until the donkey breaks open and the goodies fall out.

Christmas tree? No. A Christmas palm. Curt strung lights up the trunks of the five palms in the middle of the patio and the effect is beautiful!

Christmas gifts? For the grandchildren, sure. But our gift this year is having our son and his family travel to Mexico to celebrate with us.

Merry Christmas to all! Or, feliz navidad!

The Stove in the Hall

2007-12-08T17:53:00.000-06:00

Update on blog below ... this is stoves, part two. Estufas in Spanish. (I like the word).

The guys never came.

So we went to the store and upgraded to an even bigger, brighter Bosch. It finally came, they took away the other stove, and we cooked a chicken in it.

After 55 minutes, we couldn't touch the stove's door or handle or any of the burner controls. They were hot, hot, hot, burning hot, and this Bosch stove bragged about its triple panel, heat protective door.

We asked for our money back. And got it. Two weeks ago today. We promptly took our pesos to another store (Tio Sam, or Uncle Sam when translated) and bought a GE stove.

Tio Sam's guys installed the stove and put the Bosch in the front hall. And there it remains, despite calls to the store for pickup.

Soon, I'll put a tablecloth over it and use it for a Christmas tree stand. And enjoy a Christmas turkey in my new GE.

Where is the darn stove?

2007-11-17T11:17:00.000-06:00

We're supposed to get a new stove. Well, new, but a replacement for our new stove.

In March we bought a new, expensive, Bosch, 6 burners, beautiful silver and black. It was installed in April. And then, the problems started.

Servicemen replaced two thermostats, repaired the starter, and the stove was still a dud. Several calls got more service people, but no repairs.

Set the oven for 350 degrees (about 180 C) and the temperature could be 350 one minute, 150 ten minutes later, 500 in half an hour, back down to 300. So you either undercooked or overcooked everything. Plus staying in the kitchen to try to adjust the dial as the temperature moved up and down by itself.

Last straw. Three weeks ago the oven sent a huge fireball out into the kitchen. I am not exaggerating. HUGE! Last Sunday it tried to send another one, but the oven door was closed so we just heard a BOOM.

Don't even ask about the burners.

After the several service calls, or non-service calls, and after the fireball, we said we wanted a replacement. Bosch and the store agreed and ... maybe stupidly, we paid extra for an even fancier Bosch.

The new stove was delivered last Saturday afternoon.

BUT, once it was plugged into electricity and attached to gas, you couldn't turn the electric broiler in the oven off and you couldn't ignite the gas.

Take it away. We don't want it. And after a propina (tip) the two guys left with the stove, saying they would bring another Saturday night.

It didn't arrive. They said Tuesday. It didn't arrive. They said the truck broke down. They said Friday. It didn't arrive.

Maybe today?

Or "Manana" ... and, remember, "manana" doesn't always mean tomorrow.

Day of the Dead is Past, but ...

2007-11-14T15:56:00.000-06:00

... the memories linger on.

Cemeteries are still full of the good things delivered to graves for Day of the Dead (November 2).

You'll find cigarets, tequila bottles and remnants of the deceased's favorite foods. Even places where the living relatives and friends had barbecues or picnics. The souls of the dead arrived to join the celebrations, of course, by following the trail and the smell of marigolds.

But you'll also discover that florists and other stores must have sold thousands and thousands of bouquets of plastic flowers on a stick, each bouquet encased in see-through plastic bubbles of cellophane.

I wonder if folks were really supposed to remove the plastic before putting the flowers on the graves? And if most were left on, kind of like the plastic people leave on their lampshades?

You even see these flowers along the roadsides, decorating crosses that mark where someone died on the road.

The roadside markers are generally plain white or concrete crosses, sometimes telling you the person's name. One site near here has 6 or 7 crosses grouped together, with one flower balloon.

I have to say that the most astounding one (I can't think of another word for it) is the one a few miles south of here. It is about a foot and a half or two feet high, with Jesus on the cross. In a plexiglass, cross-shaped box.

Preserved, I presume, for ever.

Cat Movies

2007-10-14T18:09:00.000-05:00

When we turn the outside lights on at night, the geckos come out.

Across the patio, where the light covers the whole wall, at least a half dozen come out to chase bugs. They're good to have around, these geckos, because they do eat bugs (cockroaches, mosquitoes and termites)!

They're rather small, measured in inches maybe two to five, and they change colors to blend in with the beige wall. Green when they're in the garden. Curt says they are transparent when they're dead. I don't look.

But, back to evening, the cats can see them on the wall, and line up on the patio to watch the geckos catch bugs. We call them cat movies. And as long as the light is on the geckos are out.

Cana has fished them out from behind a picture hanging on the way. Chica has caught them in the kitchen and the garden. But the cats favorite? Watching the nightly "cat movies."

Geckos can walk upside down on the ceiling, backwards up the wall, across desks and tables and chairs. Across palapas, or straw roofs, too. Magic feet let them walk wherever they want, upside down or right side up.

Unfortunately, they also leave little gifts as they travel through the house. (They look like mouse droppings.) They seem to prefer my shower, bestowing multiple gifts during the night.

What are these little fellows? Wickipedia says:

Geckos are small to average sized lizards found in warm climates throughout the world. Geckos are unique among lizards in their vocalizations, making chirping sounds in social interactions with other geckos. There are 1,196 different species of geckos. The name stems from the Malay word gekoq, imitative of its cry. Geckos are unusual in other respects as well. Most geckos have no eyelids and instead have a transparent membrane which they lick to clean. Many species will, in defense, expel a foul-smelling material and feces onto their aggressors. Many species have specialized toe pads that enable them to climb smooth vertical surfaces and even cross indoor ceilings with ease. These antics are well-known to people who live in warm regions of the world where several species of geckos make their home inside human habitations. These species (for example the house gecko) become part of the indoor menagerie and are seldom really discouraged because they feed on insect pests.

Aha, house geckos!

And all the chirping I hear at night -- sounds like birds or crickets make -- are really the geckoes, talking to each other.

Now ... about that frog under my desk.

Cockadoodledoooooo

2007-10-10T15:50:00.000-05:00

We have new neighbors.

Two legged, but not people.

The people will move in soon. But ... their pets are already here. And they aren't dogs, cats, parrots or fish.

Roosters, four of them, in gorgeous colors. And hens, two, I think, rather plain in basic tan and basic white.

The man obviously loves and cares for these birds. He trims them, feeds them, and actually pets them as though they were a cat or dog. He's building a large new cage for them in the backyard.

I don't know if they have names. But I do know they are time impaired. To them, the official wake up crow may come at 4:30 a.m. or 4:30 p.m. or any other hour. It's 3:07 p.m. right now and one is our there cockadoodledooing. Dawn, too, of course, but that's just one of the cockadoodledoos and they choose the hour.

The roosters in San Pancho talk to each other. You'll hear the neighbor's "cockadoodledoo" and then, in the distance, a reply from some unknown rooster here in the pueblo. Then another and another and another. A relay of cockadoodledoos.

Or attempts at cockadoodledoo. At least one of our neighbors gives out just a "cockadoodle" ... no doo. And another, who must have a speech impairment, goes "cwockaduddledoo." Sometimes, just "cwock."

I wonder how you say cockadoodledoo in Spanish. If I find out, and if I get their names, I'll let you know.

Bet none have a name like Flying Shoe like one of my grandson's hens!

And, did you know that, in German, "Hahn" means "rooster!" Glad it's not "Vaca (cow)!"

Note: As promised, in the third to last paragraph above, I now know how to say cockadoodledoo in Spanish. A reader tells me that cockadoodledoo is kikiriki in Spanish. Trust me, these birds are not saying kikiriki!

Buns, Butts, Bellies

2007-09-29T11:41:00.000-05:00

Two bobcats fighting in a burlap bag.

That's what my father used to call large human rear ends stuffed into too small pants.

There are a lot of bobcats around these parts.

I don't know why, but people -- Mexicans and Americans -- around San Miguel de Allende were generally not fat. In fact, you seldom saw a really chunky person.

But here, is it the warm weather? the lazy life along the beach? is it too hot to cook so you just snack? I don't know why. But there are a lot of large people wearing clothes that they shouldn't. These clothes are tight. Seriously tight. Spandex tight.

I hesitate to say "fat" because the Society for the Protection of Fat People won't like it. But, damn, these people are fat.

Adult women, just like the slender female teens, jam themselves into stretch pants and jeans, as if they were a size six. I don't know how they get in, and I don't know how they get out.

The favorite tops are camisoles, or strapless tops, with bra straps showing, or tops that show off bare midriffs. Fat bare midriffs. Women who should know better, Mexicans and gringos alike, buy and wear the new fashion, low waist pants. Which leave major bulges above! And those bobcats with even less space to fight in.

Mini skirts. Mini, mini skirts. Yesterday, in the hardware store, a middle aged, maybe 40, woman came in wearing a low slung, very mini, maybe 10 inch, mini skirt. So low that her "crack" showed in back.

Men? Hair shirts for the men, a sleeveless thing adopted by even some of the gringos, who also should know better. But then, a lot of these gringo guys are trying to look like, or really are, aging hippies. Ponytails and beards and grunge.

But, it seems that as women's clothes get tighter, the guys' clothing gets looser. Huge colorful beachy looking pants, with huge t-shirts on top. Not a bad look. But the younger guys, try to imitate US styles when it comes to jeans. Really loose, baggy jeans. I've seen more sagging pants, with the undies showing above, in the past three months than I've seen in my whole life.

Tomorrow, I'll start my diet.

Nine days for Saint Francis

2007-09-27T17:43:00.000-05:00

Wear white, they said. And carry flowers. That's what Jorge and Margarita told us when they stopped by for our donation to the San Francisco Festival.

Our neighborhood was assigned the first night, which would be followed by eight more nights of festivities. You see, San Pancho is divided into nine parts. For the nine day celebration honoring patron saint Saint Francis of Assisi.

Nine days for San Francisco, San Pancho, in a pueblo that doesn't do much to celebrate Independence Day!

Nine days. Fireworks exploding at 5 a.m. and at the end of the evening's celebrations. Fireworks announcing the arrival of the neighborhood parade at the church.

Let me start over. Our neighborhood, about a ninth of the pueblo, was assigned the first night. Neighbors gave varying amounts of money, according to what they could afford, to Jorge and Margarita. Other neighborhoods did the same with their leaders, as each of the nine sections is assigned a different night.

The money helped decorate the streets and paid for a float, a pickup with a beautiful woman (an angel? the virgin?) over the cab and Saint Francis in brown garb in the back of the pickup. Each had a mural behind them. And it paid for the band that marched with the candle-carrying neighbors to the church.

Some nights there's enough money to pay for a bull--a beautiful silver aluminum replica of a bull, carried by older teens or young men, with fireworks blazing out of its sides. The fireworks skim across the plaza, sending anyone over 20 into hiding while young kids follow the bull. Over and over the fireworks are ignited and over and over we run for cover. The only safe place is the church.

In the plaza there were drinks (pina coladas, white russians, margaritas) and beer and food. I enjoyed a huge, tall frozen pina colada in a plastic glass to take home. ($40 pesos each.) I gave it to a friend who collected as many as she could for use around her pool. Taco stands.(Four of us each had three tacos and the bill was less than $100 pesos (less than $10 USDollars). Rides for the kids. Games. Ice cream. Music.

I'm told it gets a little bigger, a little grander each night. Oh, there's always a procession, music, and a full mass at the church every evening. Fireworks, as well.
On October 4th, the real San Francisco Day, fireworks are on a tower, which revolves and moves and sets off more fireworks until some fly through the air and along the ground and are, basically, to be avoided.

All in all, a grand celebration for and by the people in the pueblo of San Pancho. Before all the tourists and gringos return.

Why nine days? I don't have a clue.

Why tercera edad?

2007-09-21T12:03:00.002-05:00

Why Tercera edad for the title of this page? Because, it sounds better than saying "old people."

Tercera edad is the "third age," meaning those 60 or older. You can figure out the math, I hope ... 0 to 30, 30 to 60, then tercer edad. (I don't know about the fourth age.)

Sometimes, some places, you get special parking spaces. Among the spaces marked for the handicapped and the pregnant, you'll find spaces close to the door of a store marked for those of us in the third age. Tercer edad.

Sounds better than "old people," doesn't it!

As does jubilada, instead of "retired woman." Or, jubilado, for "retired man. Or, retirado, another option.

I once referred to someone as being viejo, or old, and was politely reminded that we don't use that word for people, only objects, if we want to be polite.

Ahhh, Spanish. It sounds good. And we're working on learning more.

Adios.

Buying at the front door

2007-09-18T18:06:00.000-05:00

You can buy almost anything here without leaving the house.

The ice cream guy, my favorite, with his car outfitted with coolers and a sound track running. Always a choice of three flavors ... maybe nut, vanilla and something for the kids, like bubblegum flavor.

Of course, all the peddlers have sound tracks running. Either you identify the music or the words tell you what's for sale.

The knife sharpener walks around, with a whistle to tell you he is near.

The garbage guys ring a cowbell to tell you to get the garbage to the curb now.

But everyone else seems to have a sound track.

At the front door, you can buy shrimp, beautiful plump giant shrimp. Fresh of course. Eighty pesos (less than eight USDollars) for a kilogram (2.2 pounds). Or, you can buy cerviche, a combination of raw, marinated seafood.

Or, furniture. Beds and dressers, chairs, tables.

Lots of vegetables. I think I've found two different men, always men selling it seems, driving by the house selling the freshest fruits and vegetables imaginable. At least one of them comes by twice a day, morning and night.

Two propane companies, arriving early in the morning. Soni-gas, with a jingle that repeats and repeats and repeats (why don't the drivers eventually go nuts listening to it day after day?), arrives just after 7 a.m. Flo-gas follows closely behind.

And clothes. I've even seen a panel truck loaded with clothes (lots for kids) driving up and down our streets.

There's the ice cream truck now ...

Nothing died in the kitchen today

2007-09-18T17:49:00.000-05:00

No, nothing died in the kitchen today.

The bees seemed to have stopped for a day or two. How long do they live, anyway? And, why the kitchen? Why not the bedroom? dining room? Why are all the little bodies littering the kitchen counters?

I try to catch them by letting them climb onto the blade of a knife. Then, I flick them out the window. But I think the same ones keep coming back, just to die in the kitchen.

Yesterday, it was a spider. Not just a spider, but a SPIDER. We found it in the sink, body bigger than a silver dollar. We drowned it.

There are the tiny tiny ants that we have learned to just smash with a finger if they dare walk by. And we spray the garden for flies, ticks, whatever is out there.

Would living things in the kitchen be better? Like the frog? The jungle frog hiding behind the microwave? How did he get there? How does a frog jump onto a kitchen counter?

At least the crabs didn't get into the kitchen. One fell into the pool, poor fellow, and drowned. But nothing in the kitchen. Friends have them marching right in the front door and out the back. They're coming out of their holes, heading for the sea where they'll make more crabs. And nothing gets in their way.

We've been warned about the scorpions, so have learned to check our shoes and beds before getting in. So far, no scorpions. They say if you have crickets you won't have scorpions. Unfortunately, I found out that the noises I thought came from crickets came from the geckoes. So maybe we will find scorpions.

I think we have a lot to learn about living in the jungle -- the northern most jungle in this continent, a 100 mile stretch of jungle -- and the creatures we share it with.

We'll keep working on it.