As promised, I have been consciously getting away from the house to try out my Spanish on unwary souls in my neighborhood. Because of my limited vocabulary, the conversations are a bit sketchy.
Cole Porter once wrote a song about the letter he wished he had written to the hostess of a disastrous weekend. Where the bracing conversation consisted of "Racing. And racing. And -- racing."
My conversations are about as limited. They are usually about Barco. And Barco And -- Barco. But my neighbors never seem to tire of dog tales. Or weather comments. Or the number of Mexican tourists in town. That last topic is always a happy one.
A week ago, I was talking with one of the cooks at Rooster's about my bean soup recipe. She wanted to know the ingredients. Fortunately, I knew all of the words in Spanish. Or so I thought.
I told her, the soup consisted of: frijoles (beans), jamón (ham -- ham steak, in this recipe), cebolla (onion), ajo (garlic), tres jalapeños (three jalapeños), cuatro zanahorias (four carrots), un moron amarillo (a yellow bell pepper), un moron rojo (a red bell pepper), and -- tres cabezas.
She looked shocked at that last revelation. When she started laughing, I knew what I had done. Instead of saying I had put three zucchini (tres calabazas) in my soup, I told her I had used three heads. A slightly different meaning.
Of course, if I had been cooking up pozole (a Mexican hominy-based soup) using the pre-Conquest Aztec recipe, a head would have been an acceptable ingredient. Along with the rest of the vanquished warrior's body. Pork is now the acceptable substitute.
At least, it was a topic that did not involve my dog, the humidity, or the local influx of pesos.
That was Spark's (a blogger colleague) comment responding to my obvious attempt to pander for additional page hits with yesterday's semi-essay (i despise "cute animal photographs harvested from social media). He clarified: "[J]ust haven't worn sox for years."
Sparks and I have had this conversation before. He marvels at the fact that I maintain a wardrobe of long pants, shoes, and socks in our little beach community. From his perspective, they are superfluous. I can only imagine what he would say about the dinner jacket and white tie outfit hanging in my closet.
Usually, I am like Sparks. I see no need for some clothes. I walk around our village in the same t-shirts, sandals, and shorts (that make all of us older men look as if we are wearing diapers) as do most northerners. The Beach Look that occasioned a Mexican waiter friend of mine to ask why Canadians (by that, he meant all people north of the Rio Bravo) "dress like poor people."
He had a point. With the exception of Mexican tourists, I have never seen a Mexican man of my age dressed as if he was mourning his long-departed youth. (I think it was Emily Post who said no man over 25 should ever wear shorts. I suspect for aesthetic reasons.) Mexican men wear long pants, shoes, and -- yes -- socks. Even in the heat and humidity of the summer.
As do I, when I go to the big cities or have business with government officials. Clothes do matter.
I was in Manzanillo this morning (in my Steve-goes-to-the-big-town clothes) for a follow-up dental appointment to cast impressions of my teeth. Because I arrived early, I walked over to the dry cleaner where I had left six shirts last week. They were cleaned, pressed, and hung to travel.
Most of my clothes need no special treatment by my laundress. Almost all of them are cotton.
But I have a series of silk shirts (some of them given to me by my friend Leo) that I really like. They drape well. And silk is always comfortable in the tropics. Even though my friend Roxane thinks most of them make me look like a tourist named Sidney from Des Moines.
Even though most of the shirts claim to be washable, they really aren't. Dry cleaning is the only service that restores them to their natural state. (Well, not entirely. Their natural state would be a silkworm cocoon.)
And the best thing? Even though dry cleaning is a rare luxury here, it only cost me $240 (Mx) for six shirts. That is just a bit over $13 (US). I cannot recall what I paid in Salem. But I think $13 would just about cover two, not six, shirts.
And the debate over socks? One of the joys about being a libertarian is that I really do not care if anyone chooses to wear socks or not. That is their business; not mine.
I suspect my Mexican neighbors would respond similarly.
That was Spark's (a blogger colleague) comment responding to my obvious attempt to pander for additional page hits with yesterday's semi-essay (i despise "cute animal photographs harvested from social media). He clarified: "[J]ust haven't worn sox for years."
Sparks and I have had this conversation before. He marvels at the fact that I maintain a wardrobe of long pants, shoes, and socks in our little beach community. From his perspective, they are superfluous. I can only imagine what he would say about the dinner jacket and white tie outfit hanging in my closet.
Usually, I am like Sparks. I see no need for some clothes. I walk around our village in the same t-shirts, sandals, and shorts (that make all of we older men look as if we are wearing diapers) as do most northerners. The Beach Look that occasioned a Mexican waiter friend of mine to ask why Canadians (by that, he meant all people north of the Rio Bravo) "dress like poor people."
He had a point. With the exception of Mexican tourists, I have never seen a Mexican man of my age dressed as if he was mourning his long-departed youth. (I think it was Emily Post who said no man over 25 should ever wear shorts. I suspect for aesthetic reasons.) Mexican men wear long pants, shoes, and -- yes -- socks. Even in the heat and humidity of the summer.
As do I, when I go to the big cities or have business with government officials. Clothes do matter.
I was in Manzanillo this morning (in my Steve-goes-to-the-big-town clothes) for a follow-up dental appointment to cast impressions of my teeth. Because I arrived early, I walked over to the dry cleaner where I had left six shirts last week. They were cleaned, pressed, and hung to travel.
Most of my clothes need no special treatment by my laundress. Almost all of them are cotton.
But I have a series of silk shirts (some of them given to me by my friend Leo) that I really like. They drape well. And silk is always comfortable in the tropics. Even though my friend Roxane thinks most of them make me look like a tourist named Sidney from Des Moines.
Even though most of the shirts claim to be washable, they really aren't. Dr cleaning is the only service that restores them to their natural state. (Well, not entirely. Their natural state would be a silkworm cocoon.)
And the best thing? Even though dry cleaning is a rare luxury here, it only cost me $240 (Mx) for six shirts. That is just a bit over $13 (US). I cannot recall what I paid in Salem. But I think $13 would just about cover two, not six, shirts.
And the debate over socks? One of the joys about being a libertarian is that I really do not care if anyone chooses to wear socks or not. That is their business; not mine.
I suspect my Mexican neighbors would respond similarly.
There was a time, it seems not so long ago, when people gave me money if my teeth fell out.
Ours was a household that scoffed at superstition and secular icons. Santa Claus? The Easter bunny? They were for neighborhood kids that found their amusement by hiding inside wicker baskets. Not for the Cotton boys steeped in Hegelian reality.
Well, there was one big exception -- the tooth fairy. A baby tooth that had made its successful escape from our childish mouths was ceremoniously placed under the pillow of the newly gap-toothed boy, only to be replaced with a shiny dime in the middle of the night. (It is a bit ironic that it was also a dime that was baked in our birthday cakes to enrich a lucky child's pocket, and, if fortunate in the biting, to loosen a tooth. We called it a twofer.)
I am not certain why my very rational parents simply did not sit us down to negotiate the market rate for baby teeth. But that is even too creepily Trumpish for my imagination.
But there are no more tooth fairies in Mexpatriate's life. Now, when teeth fall out, I pay others to replace them.
When we last left this story line, in the situation comedy that is my life, back in December (my bite is worse than -- almost anything), I was about to undergo the first steps of a dental implant to replace a molar lost to the ravages of age.
Around Christmas, I spent several hours in a dentist chair being sliced, pricked, and drilled. The foundation for my new tooth did not have an adequate base. So, the young dentist opened my jaw to insert a cadaver bone that would lift my nasal sinus and provide something for the post, which would support my new tooth, to latch onto.
With the bone nestled in its resting place, he installed a temporary post. And then we waited. For six months. To see if madame nature had smiled on me.
Early last week, I drove to Manzanillo for another adventure in the chair. You can see the results at the top of this essay.
What looks like a weather map of a heat dome is my mouth. You can see the post -- along with the new bone surrounding it. I imagine F. Murray Abraham's mouth in Insurrection looked something like that.
Some time this week, I will return to the chair for the second half of this oral narrative -- and surgery. The dentist will take out the short post and add a longer one -- to be followed by impressions. Not the Rich Little type. Impressions of my teeth. That cast will then be sent off to a laboratory to create a new tooth to join the Rockettes in my mouth who have not yet had their last kick.
I am certain someone is going to ask. So, I will ease your inquiring minds. This stage of the implant will cost $12,000 (Mx) -- or about $639 (US). Not a bad price. Even with all those hours in the chair.
I was thinking of slipping the peso notes under a pillow in the dentist's office. But I am not certain how that would translate culturally.
Like all teenage boys, I was enthralled with the idea that my lack of personal power could only mean that some nefarious force was ruling my life -- and, by extension, must also be ruling the world.
There were certainly plenty of candidates. Americans tended to opt for the Illuminati; Europeans for the Knights Templar or Marxism.
Back then, before the internet provided hideouts for the conspiracy brewers, if you wanted to find a fellow conspirator, you would join the John Birch Society or the Socialist Workers Party. Or, you could do, as I did, work on your own obsession. Mine was with the assassination of John Kennedy.
I read every article and book I could find. Researched original documents. Watched film clips. I adopted more theories (often contradictory) than Hillary or Donald do in their speeches.
Fortunately, I lost the conspiracy bug and learned one of the most important lessons of being an adult: the world is pretty much what you observe. In the case of my Kennedy conspiracies theories, Gerald Posner's Case Closed: Lee Harvey Oswald and the assassination of JFK settled the issue. There was no conspiracy; just tragedy.
At least, I thought I had lost that bug -- until today. Now dreams of black helicopters flit through my skull.
Secretary of State John Kerry was in Austria yesterday attending a meeting to amend the Montreal Protocol to speed up the elimination of chlorofluorocarbons in refrigerants and air conditioners. In a rhetorical flourish, he equated air conditioners with terrorism: "As we were working together on the challenge of [ISIS] and terrorism, it’s hard for some people to grasp it, but what we–you–are doing
here right now is of equal importance because it has the ability to literally
save life on the planet itself.”
Fair enough. It is an election season. And political rhetoric often has enough hot air to require its own dedicated refrigeration system.
I wasn't quite certain, though, how to square Kerry's formulation that air conditioning is terrorism with President Obama's warning to the nation about the current heat wave: "Stay indoors in the air conditioning, drink a lot of water, and be on the lookout for children or animals kept alone in a car."
"Stay indoors in the air conditioning?" Sounds like good advice to me. But isn't that the equivalent of supporting ISIS -- or being ISIS?
As luck would have it, reducing refrigerants to a Kantian moral imperative comes along just as I have started looking at the possibility of installing air conditioning in my bedroom. For Barco, mind you. Not me.
I know. It is a complex world in which we live. Especially when the rhetorical train runs away with our logic.
Last April, I found an article I wanted to discuss with you. And I guess this is an opportune time. It is certainly relevant.
My first reaction was that it was akin to my 1 April blogs. The good folks at The Telegraph were merely pulling our legs -- just before they bit in.
But, not so. The dateline was 29 March. Not 1 April.
Researchers had long known that vegetarians were 40 percent more likely to contract colorectal cancer than meat eaters. But they had no idea why.
They now have some idea. A research team from Cornell University compared the genomes of people in Pune, India, who are primarily vegetarian, with the genomes of beef-munching residents of Kansas. The result?
The vegetarians had developed a genome that could rapidly break down plant fatty acids. Their digestive systems then turn those oils into an acid that causes chronic inflammation -- the type of inflammation associated with colon cancer and heart disease.
Will that plate of broccoli give you polyps? The study does not answer that question. After all, temporal correlation is not causality.
But it did make me raise an eyebrow three days later when the United Nations issued one of its recurring reports on diet -- with the usual warnings. Eating meat is bad for your health. And it is even worse for the planet.
Face it. Eating that steak is almost as evil as turning on your air conditioner.
I am going to do one of two things to stop the confusion. Either I am going to stop reading the newspaper -- or I am just going to sit out in the sun munching soy beans until my colon flares up.
Or I will just wait for the black helicopters to set down in my courtyard. Maybe they will bring along an air conditioner and a crate of Kansas steaks.
Before I decided to retire in Mexico, the leading candidate for my new home was going to be Greece.
Or London. Or Paris. Places I had lived and thoroughly enjoyed the complexity of life. But, my favorite was Greece.
Nostalgia is a harsh mistress. Joys always outweigh disappointments when we think about our pasts. It was that way with my Greek memories.
I lived there only one year -- from August of 1973 (when the Watergate was coming to a boil) until August of 1974 (when Richard Nixon made his stage left exit from the White House).
My title was "Technical Advisor to the Hellenic Air Force." A clever little mask that allowed me cover to advise the Greek Air Force in its machinations against the Army dictatorship that was winding down its hold on the government. It was all very heady stuff for a first lieutenant.
But the political doings of the Greeks was not what made me think of retiring there. It was the country.
I lived on the western shores of the Peloponnese (the grape leaf portion of Greece that juts out into the Mediterranean) in an adequate villa in the village of Kato Achaia (or, Κάτω Αχαΐα, as the Greeks would have it). "Cato, Ohio" as it was called by my Air Force colleagues, who never passed up the opportunity to reduce any Greek phrase to something American. I will not titillate you with the bawdier examples.
That portion of Greece was poor, but not extremely poor. Compared with northern Europe, it had not progressed much from its days as an Ottoman outpost.
Telephone connections were difficult. Roads were narrow and pot-holed. And finding any European food imports (let alone American) was a rarity. Greece would not join the EEC for another 5 years, a decision that many Greeks now rue.
The country was (and still is) beautiful -- the type of stark beauty that made Maria Callas a star. Sheer mountains plunging into the blue Mediterranean. And some of the most beautiful beaches in the world.
I finally decided not to retire there. Greece bears some rather sad memories for me. The night I left Athens on my way to England, a group of friends held a party for me at the marina in Vouliagmeni. I never saw most of them again due to Philip Agee's treason.
But it was not just politics. I was always surprised how my middle class Greek friends, who lived in Athens, managed to survive. The cost of electricity and gasoline was exorbitant. Even though they always had enough money to go out on the weekend, they always seemed strapped for cash.
When I was ready to retire, the siren call of the beaches nearly called me back to southern Europe. Even in 2009, though, Greece's fiscal problems were evident. It did not look like a country with a future. Thirty years of crony government made the place not much more attractive than Russia as a retirement spot.
It is funny that a lot of my good memories of places circulate around food. I would regularly drive from my assignment on the Peloponnese to Athens. There was a natural break point at the Corinth canal -- the ill-fated narrow channel cut in the limestone to connect the Aegean Sea with the Gulf of Corinth.
There was a souvlaki stand there that served some of the best lamb I have ever tasted. Simple. Grilled. With a bit of lemon, olive oil, and oregano.
I have subsequently attended every Greek festival and eaten at many Greek restaurants in a vain hope to once again experience that first taste. But, like an opium addict, I am merely chasing the dragon. The experience was a one-shot deal.
On Monday evening, I tried it once again. Alex offered up at Greek night at Magnolia's in La Manzanilla. There were, as always, three entrees offered. When I saw the chicken souvlaki with tzatziki, I knew what my dinner would be.
Alex's dinners are always done well. And this was no exception -- one of the best souvlaki I have had in years.
But I did not catch the dragon. And I never well.
That is one reason I am now retired in Mexico, instead of exploring the archaeological sites of Greece. It has been a fair trade.
And it need not be anything as dramatic as the smoking skeleton of the Hindenburg or the breach in the South Fork Dam above Johnstown. Sometimes, it can merely be a knife.
I saw it sitting on top of the hose box when I returned from my dental appointment in Manzanillo (more on that later). One of my good kitchen knives. The woman who cleans my house (Dora) has a great respect for tools. That meant if one of my good knives was outside of the kitchen, we were in the midst of an emergency.
And we were. Dora called to me from the upstairs terrace asking if there was a way to shut off the electricity to the pump. A quick look at the stairs showed me why. I had not seen that much water cascading down the stairs since hurricane Patricia visited us last October.
I ran upstairs to see what had happened. Apparently, while Dora's young assistant was cleaning upstairs, the terra cotta cover over a light fell and snapped off one of the water pipe stems the contractor had left for future expansion. We had our own private water feature.
Dora had attempted to use electrical tape to re-attach the pipe (thus the presence of the knife), but the water pressure was too great. The only happy being was Barco, who thought he had a full-day pass to the water park.
I unplugged the well pump to stop the water flow. Dora and I then walked around the corner to purchase a new piece of plastic pipe, a connector, and a cap -- plus the inevitable tube of plumber's cement. Dora's husband will stop by early this afternoon to assist me in undoing the pipe damage. I can then restore water to the house.
At some point, I will need to find a replacement sconce. But, this is Mexico. And terra cotta is as cheap as dirt.
Like most household disasters, this one will be easily resolved. And that may prove to be my undoing. If the Hindenburg crashed in my courtyard, I would have it cleaned out in hours. If a sconce breaks, it may stay broken for years.
I think it was it was Tolstoy who said: "All big disasters are alike; each small disaster is a disaster in its own way." Or something like that.
We may be a small village, but we do have our attractions. Growing attractions, it would seem.
I have already told you about our local dog park. Well, the dogs think it is a dog park. Everyone else thinks it is a sports park. And it looks far more like a sports park these days.
Last April I mentioned a variety show was in town (the pail woman). The troupe had staked their tent just inside the park's fence. And, for over a week, the entire show was broadcast to the neighborhood over speakers positioned on top of the tent. Mexico may have a reputation for being a calming country, but it is not a quiet one.
If the show rolled into town today, it would need to find an alternate site for its doings. What you see at the top of this essay squats on the ground so recently occupied by the variety show.
I cannot remember the exact date, but Barco and I were wandering by the park on an afternoon outing when we encountered a group of people (mainly children) being addressed by the 30-year old attorney who is the president of our municipality. All of them standing in front of a grader and a backhoe.
A fellow who works in the park, who we see often, was walking by. I asked him what was happening. He knows the shallow depths in which I wade in the great sea of Spanish. So, he slowly gave me the short-syllable version that a football field was being installed.
That seemed odd to me. The space looked far too small for a full soccer field.
It turns out I was correct. But my lack of soccer knowledge betrayed me. It is an indoor soccer field -- or what the local kids call showbol or fútbol rápido.
What was rapid was the construction. The contractors had the place up and running within two months. The first official match was on Friday -- once again with our young president and hordes of children in attendance.
And to show we are part of modern Mexico, the inaugural match was played between girl teams. A game that went well into the evening. And, in true Mexican fashion, the contractors managed to get a lighting system erected just in time to prevent the game from being rapid -- and blind.
But the football field is not the only new construction in Barra de Navidad. Ed and I took a stroll along Barra's newly-reconstructed malecon. Hurricane Patricia did its best to turn the whole thing into a rival Atlantis Road.
The town relies heavily upon tourism -- especially upon Mexican families who have trekked to the beach to indulge in sand, sea, and a sculpted mango on a stick. Because the sand has been retreating from our beaches, the malecon is an important tool to let visitors enjoy the natural wonders of Barra.
What made it so vulnerable to the storm is its beauty. On one side is the bay and the Pacific Ocean. On the other side is the lagoon with its boat marinas and moorings.
A friend of mine convinced me years ago that one of the joys of living in Barra de Navidad was getting up each morning and walking the malecon before digging into a breakfast by the sea. After living here for almost two years, I still have not done that. Not even once.
It may be time for me to slip the leash on the dog and fully enjoy where I live. I may even challenge Barco to a game of fútbol rápido.
Blogger rule #2 clearly states: "No two consecutive posts can be on the same topic."
Well, I am here to tell you that I am breaking that rule. (For you law and order types, don't worry. I made up the rule in the first place.)
Come to think of it, I have already broken that rule. a tale of two cynics and the dog that did bark were purportedly essays on our senses and watchfulness. But, we all know that is mere justification (and not the theological type). They were about Barco.
Two consecutive posts. Same topic. Rule violation.
On Wednesday, I told you in spinning the wheel with karma miranda about a culinary treat at Magnolia's: a beef sandwich with fried plantains instead of bread -- what Theresa Diaz Gray informs us is called a jibarito. Even though I tried to tart up the essay as my flight from boredom, it was clearly about food.
And so is today's entry. But, food that came from my own kitchen.
There is not a soul alive who cannot deny their kitchen produces the best food in town. And for good reason. We tend to cook dishes that appeal to our personal taste.
That is what I did last night. Butchers in Mexico are very accommodating. Most meats on offer are still in large pieces, and the butchers are willing to slice your requested purchase as thick or thin as you like.
For me, it was a stack of pork chops -- each cut about two inches thick. I was looking for a pork loin strip, but I settled for the chops.
The pork was destined for a very simple stir fry dish. Pork strips. Thinly-sliced red onion. Shredded fresh basil. Toasted pine nuts. Balsamic vinegar. All topping a pile of pasta.
Usually, I put a lot of vegetables in my stir fry. Not last night. I was after simplicity with the pork.
But I did have a nice stack of fresh vegetables. Two jalapeños. Two bell peppers: one red, one yellow. Fresh ginger. Carrots. Garlic. Onions. Water chestnuts. With a nice dash of rice vinegar.
There is something about experimenting in the kitchen that I really enjoy -- especially when the experiment produces a successful meal. And it certainly did yesterday.
Barco and I ate our respective dinners in the courtyard surrounded by the sounds of water splashing in the pool and birds high-tailing it home before they became some predators supper.
Whenever I start mumbling about being bored, as I did in going commando with the japanese about our local food, fate plops a plate of revenge on my lunch table -- a dish that is not necessarily best served cold. Take last Monday.
On each Monday evening, you will usually find me at my favorite table in Magnolia's with my friends Ed and Roxane. It is one of our local rituals -- to climb the hills to La Manzanilla's enchanting beach to dine at one of our favorite restaurants.
During the summer, Alex, the owner-cook, prepares a special menu for the three days she is open each week. There is always a theme. Mediterranean. Asian. All-American. But always something new.
This week, she did something completely different. She turned the kitchen over to Mari, the proprietor of the pop-up restaurant Sol y Mar.
Mari is usually our waiter. Last week, she told us one of her offerings was going to be a Puerto
Rican sandwich with a garlic sauce, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and sliced beef. The difference was fried plantains would be substituted for the bread.
I was skeptical. I first tried fried plantains in Cuba. They were underwhelming. My subsequent encounters had not changed my initial impression. I was loth to give them another try.
Until I remembered my two rules of dining out: 1) order something that is too difficult to cook at home, or 2) try something new and different. So, #2 it would be.
And I am glad I ordered the sandwich. It may be the first time I have discovered umami -- that taste our mouth devotes to the savory -- in a sandwich.Tied with a scoop of potato salad and a root beer float for dessert, my sandwich was a practically perfect meal. I almost passed up that experience for an equally-tempting pink mole and chicken. But life is made of choices.
The nice thing about Magnolia's is that the portions are large enough I almost always take half of the serving home for my lunch the next day. That is my Tuesday lunch at the top of the post.
Morals are playing a big part in my essays these days. But not in this one. I have learned that Karma can easily play the role of Loki the trickster.
So, with apologies to Mr. Stephen Sondheim, I will close with: Morals tomorrow; comida tonight.
Few things in life are more valuable than the recommendation of a good book from a friend.
Not long after Barco nuzzled his way into my household, my blogger pal Jennifer Rose told me to get a copy of Alexandra Horowitz's Inside a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know -- and to then read it. She promised great insight into the ways of dogs.
I bought the book earlier this year, but it has been sitting in my Kindle waiting for me to weary of my read-about-all-the-dead-presidents project. (I will explain that modified title in a later essay.) A friend in the United States has mailed me a hard copy of a Harding biography -- the next entry on my list. While waiting for it to arrive, I decided it was time to learn a bit more about my rather fickle dog pal.
Barco usually joins me in the pool when I start one of my reading jags. Not because he is infatuated with my presence, but because I usually eat my dinner while I read. He is a food-centered dog.
On Saturday, I shared the two different worlds Barco and I occupy (a tale of two cynics). Mine is sight and sound. His is nasal.
Not surprisingly, that is where Horowitz begins her tale of dog life. She had just told me about the mechanism dogs use to clear their nasal passages of old smells to make way for new -- with a slight sneeze -- when Barco did something I had never heard him do before. He was taking in short bursts of air. Almost as if he had suddenly turned asthmatic.
I was a bit concerned -- until I noticed he was very intent in his sniffing. He was not only sniffing; he was analyzing.
He got out of the pool and started toward the garage door grumbling, as he often does, like an old man muttering about socialism. He then stopped and ran up to the second level where he started barking. When he ran downstairs, I knew he wanted me to come witness some new danger to our sovereign existence.
I almost expected to see hordes of Canadians crawling over the wall. But I could see nothing. Nor could I smell whatever it was that initially set him off.
But he insisted, by barking at the top of the wall, that danger lurked. And then I saw it.
We humans love bathing in hubris that our eyesight trumps the puny efforts of dogs. But tied with his nose, Barco's eyes put mine to shame.
Sure enough, there were intruders. They are right there in the photograph that leads this piece. But, like me, you might need a closer look.
Yup. Two fellows were climbing the tower next to my house -- I presume to do some maintenance work.
In Barco's world, of course, there are no presumptions. People fall into two categories. Friends (people within our walls) and dangerous intruders (anyone on the other side of the wall). And those guys were definitely not inside our walls.
Popular culture runs in cycles. When I was young, westerns were the way to fill the Hollywood bank. No one is much interested in seeing one these days. Sherlock Holmes is far more fortunate -- having waxed and waned in popularity since Conan Doyle released him out of his imagination.
Barco could just as easily have told me, when I finally saw what had caused him to cry "Hey, Rube!" this afternoon: "You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear."
Before long, he will be requesting a deerstalker and a briar pipe. It must be the bloodhound in him.
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
Poor Charles Dickens. When he wrote that line, it was fresh and original. Even better, it perfectly (and brilliantly) summed up the tale he was about to tell concerning the glory -- and the horror -- of the French Revolution. Writers enjoy a good hook.
And now? It is like any other cliché. Stripped of its essence by familiarity. Gérard de Nerval's familiar bon mot captures the process: "The first man who compared a woman to a rose was a poet; the second, an imbecile."
Barco and I breathed some life into Dickens's line last evening during our sunset walk. We are both aesthetes -- each in our own way. The problem is we define beauty quite differently.
That should come as no surprise. Dogs find beauty with their noses. Humans find beauty through sight and hearing.
That is where our Dickensian struggle started last night. We headed out on our walk just as a thunderstorm was rolling in over the mountains. I did not need to look over the walls of the house to see a storm was arriving. As the front passed over the house, the change in air pressure along with an accompanying wind and falling temperature obviated the need for a protocol officer announcing its arrival.
The northern sky was almost purple -- forming a dramatic backdrop for the lightning that ran the full length of the horizon. It was a marked contrast with the various clouds that had gathered to the west promising what would be one of our memorable beach sunsets.
But Barco was having none of that. He was far more interested in who had dropped a birria bone or who had urinated on a roadside clump of grass. For him, the world was filled with the wonder of discovery through his nasal passages.
I, of course, forgot to bring my camera on this walk. When I decided to cut back on writing essays, I also lost the habit of carrying my camera. So, I had to rely on the camera in my telephone -- and live with the adage "good enough is good enough."
But, even that camera was a challenge to operate. Because one hand was tethered to Barco, I looked like a tight rope walker when I would stop to snap a shot. The problem? Barco wanted to keep walking.
That is ironic. Before Barco came into my life, I was walking four miles each morning in just under an hour. I still walk an hour with him. But we are lucky to complete four blocks -- let alone four miles -- in that time.
We just do not share the same aesthetic sensibilities.
If that sounds like a complaint, it isn't. I am thoroughly enjoying getting to know this dog. He is actually becoming a pal. And, at some point, like Sydney Carton, one (or both of us) might be able to say: "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
But not quite yet. My metaphoric appointment with Madames Guillotine and Defarge can wait. Maybe they can take my seat in Emily Dickinson's carriage.
I would be missing a great opportunity if I dd not close this little ramble with Billie Collins's take on the aging of dogs.
A Dog on his Master
As young as I look, I am growing older faster than he, seven to one is the ratio they tend to say. Whatever the number, I will pass him one day and take the lead the way I do on our walks in the woods. And if this ever manages to cross his mind, it would be the sweetest shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.
So, there I was writing about how to become a Mexican citizen, and my calendar decided to do an impression of Poe's raven. There is something about the Fourth of July that stokes the fire under the nostalgia cauldron.
There was a time when the Fourth of July was a very special holiday for Americans. Family picnic. Fireworks. Pageants. Sometimes, all of them in one grand package that could only happen in The States.
In the mid-1960s, Alpenrose Dairy outside of Portland, decided to produce an extravaganza of American history. Alpenrose was one of those businesses with a civic conscious -- the type of business we all think of when we hear the term "American small business."
The company sponsored and provided facilities for Little League, a midget racing track, a velodrome, an opera house, a Christmas village, and dozens of other activities that made the farm exactly what the family owners intended -- a hub for the local community.
Not to mention that it was darn good business. Everyone had a soft spot in their heart for Alpenrose. I still remember the trucks delivering milk in the morning while I was cycling through my neighborhood on my paper route. Alpenrose was part of my Norman Rockwell childhood.
But I stopped being an observer of Alpenrose when I was invited to be part of its newly-formed Fourth of July pageant -- "This is My Country." The production was everything Cecil B. DeMille could have desired. The full panoply of American history. Pilgrims. Presidents. Cowboys. Indians. And lots of wagons, horses, and assorted animals. All played out on a rodeo ground with 10,000 spectators.
Most of the cast was recruited from the various Portland-area Youth for Christ clubs. It was a great opportunity for most of us to meet people we would not have met otherwise. I still have a very close friend who I met there.
What I remember best is the complete lack of irony in the production. It was what it was. A full-blown love song of patriotism for the nation we loved. We were perfectly aware that the country was not perfect. But we loved it for what it was -- and what it aspired to be.
And that is what I intend to do today. I am going to reach back 50 years to find the Norman Rockwell kid I once was -- to simply bask in the greatness of the country I will always love. And celebrate a full day without sardonic sarcasm or irony.
No matter how many citizenships I stick on my suit case before I die, this is my country.
Happy birthday, America. It has been great knowing you.
When we last left Roxane and Ed's excellent adventure (proof of the pudding), the three of us were driving back to the beach from Colima. Both of them had passed their Spanish fluency test at the University of Colima with flying colors.
With his certificate in hand, Ed had returned to the naturalization office for what we estimated to be his ninth visit during the past few years -- in high hopes that he had everything he needed to forward his citizenship application to Mexico City for processing. It turned out not everything was to the satisfaction of the processing clerk.
She told Ed he needed to go to the immigration office in Manzanillo to clear up a concern she had about one of his Mexican residency cards. Even though he felt a bit let down, he and Roxane went to the immigration office the next day and witnessed an incredibly efficient retrieval of the card. (Remember all of those documents you gave to immigration over the years to renew visas? The copies I always imagined were trashed the moment I left the office? They are stored in thick folders.)
So, on Friday, we headed back up to Colima in the hope that it would be our last trip. If you are laughing at our naivete, you are jumping ahead in the story. But you would be correct.
The clerk informed Ed he now needed to return to the Manzanillo immigration office to get another document. What was frustrating was that the clerk knew about that missing piece when we talked with her on Wednesday, but she did not mention it. So, on Monday, Ed will need to go back to the same immigration office where he was on Thursday to retrieve more information that he could have retrieved earlier had he received a timely request.
I do not ascribe motives to people. Making windows into people's souls is a fool's mission. But there is nothing to do other than to comply as long as Ed wants to become a citizen. He soldiers on.
I thought it might be helpful to set out the ten requirements for applying for Mexican citizenship based on the government's web site. If you want to see the original, you can find it at: http://sre.gob.mx/carta-de-naturalizacion-por-residencia. The edited, English version is mine. As are the comments, they are mine and not legal advice. They are merely some musings I have picked up in the process.
1. The applicant must be an adult. I qualify -- at least, by years. There is no requirement of acting like an adult.
2. The applicant must complete an application (with the very bureaucratic name of DNN-3) completed either on a typewriter or by hand in black ink. Printed. Legibly. Bring along the original and a copy. That step sounds easier than it is. I have never been very accomplished at filling out government forms -- even though I have been doing it for over five decades now. But this is a good exercise to show Spanish comprehension (and, for Americans, the ability to convert real measurements into metric). It is also the opportunity the applicant is given to explain exactly why he wants to be a Mexican citizen.
As for the copies, bring three. For some reason, three seems to be a magic number at the Colima office.
3. The applicant must be able to prove he has been a permanent resident in Mexico for five years prior to filing for naturalization. The original documents and two copies must be presented. There is bad information going around about what constitutes proof of the five years of permanent residency. The best proof will soon be the permanent resident card itself. But they have been in effect for only the past three years. The other two years require proof from the prior visa system.
Prior to the permanent resident card, visas were divided into FM2 and FM3 categories. Only FM2 time applies to meet the rest of the five-year requirement. Time sent in Mexico on an FM3 is the same as if the applicant had lived here on a tourist card making artisan jewelry. In other words -- it is about as helpful as having only one copy of anything.
And, as for those two copies, bring three.
4. A certified birth certificate is required. But not just certified, it must also have an apostille attached. Then both of them must be translated by a certified translator. The original and two copies must be presented. Almost everyone has a certified birth certificate. What most people do not have is an apostille that certifies the certified document is what it purports to be. In my case, I will need the Oregon Secretary of State to create an apostille for my birth certificate. (This is one step that causes a lot of people to start asking: "Why?" Don't bother. Just do it.)
Again, two copies means three copies.
5. The application must copy each page of his passport. The original passport and two copies must be presented. This one is easy (and it ties into the next requirement). Black and white copies are acceptable. I am not going to take a chance. It will be color for me.
Oh, yeah, be certain to copy the cover.
Again, two copies means three copies.
6. The applicant must present a letter and two copies, under oath, clearly indicating the number of exits out of and entries into Mexico for the two years prior to filing the application. In theory, the entries and exits should be the same as those in the passport. The purpose of the requirement is to establish that the applicant has not been outside of Mexico in excess of the number of days allowed in Article 21 of the Nationality Act.
I am not certain what "under oath" means here. In Oregon, it would mean a notarization is required. I need to find out more.
Yup. 2=3.
7. The applicant must provide proof of no criminal record at the federal and state level. Two photocopies. This is the trickiest of the requirements. The federal certificate is issued in Mexico City. For we beach dwellers, the Jalisco certificate is issued in El Grullo, a mountain town hours away.
The tricky part is not the travel. Each of the certificates is good for only 90 days. As you can tell from Ed's adventure, the certificates could easily expire while trying to satisfy the clerk concerning "missing" documents.
My suggestion is to obtain the certificates as the very last items before you submit your application.
The 2? You already know.
8. The applicant must exhibit an ability to speak Spanish, to know Mexican history, and provide proof of integration in the Mexican culture. Anyone over the age of 60 is not required to take the history test. That is too bad. On the sample tests, I usually score high. Of course, Mexican history is one of my passions.
And I have already told you about the language test (proof of the pudding). Simply knowing that a basic understanding of conversation and written skills in Spanish is sufficient to get a certificate has helped ease my mind about the process.
Three copies of the certificate from the University of Colima would be a safe bet.
As for the "cultural integration" requirement, I suspect that element may be part of the "why I want to be a Mexican citizen" answer in the application.
9. No application would be worth its salt without the requirement of two identical recent photographs, passport size (4.5 x 3.5 cms). White background. Frontal. No glasses. Bareheaded. These, of course, will appear in your shiny new Mexican passport once the naturalization process is completed. I like to think of this requirement as the ray of hope.
10. The applicant must provided proof of payment for the application fees. Original only. And what those fees are, I do not know. Nor do I care. Once I get to the tenth step, I will be joyous. And exhausted.
As for that "original only," don't believe it. Make three copies.
So, there you are. Ten little steps whose simple language masks what could easily be a modern equivalent of the Labors of Hercules. Or, at least, Sisyphus-lite.
In twenty months, it will be what I am doing. I hope Ed and Roxane will be driving me up to Colima for my starring role. Come to think of it, that is just about the time Roxane may apply.
I am off to celebrate Canada Day with some friends -- from Canada, of course. I am their American pet.
In 1986, my friends, Ken and Patti Latsch, and I attended the Expo in Vancouver together. My strongest memory of the whole event was the Canadian Pavilion with its Goose and Beaver Show. (I kid you not. Who says Canadians do not have a naughty sense of humor -- or is that humour? I forget.)
One of the productions (one that worked, that is; most of the films simply broke down faster than a Soviet watch) was a movie celebrating Canada's people and scenery. I was entranced with the music. In fact, I left the theater humming the tune -- and it came back to me periodically over the years.
Well, this is the day (back in 1867) when the province of Canada, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia joined together to form the Dominion of Canada -- part of the British Empire. Even though its constitution remained under the authority of the Queen, the day is often celebrated as Canada's birthday. Compared to the American birth, it was a quiet affair.
Thirty years after attending Expo, I have found the missing song. On YouTube, of course. I wish I hadn't. It is as trite and mundane as a Disney production. But that may just be the compliment nostalgia pays to reality.
