I know that flies in the face of stereotypes some northerners have imposed on Mexico. The peon in white pajamas, sandals, and a serape sleeping propped up in the shade of a cactus while his burro waits patiently nearby is so ubiquitous that Mexicans have turned it into a sardonic joke by selling tourists salt and pepper shakers of the bucolic scene.
There is only one problem. There is not a shred of truth in it. It is true that my neighbors (especially in the summer heat) do eat a big meal at 2 and then take a rest. But that is only because they are readying themselves for the rest of the work day that can last until 9 or 10.
There is no better example of that industriousness than construction sites. Almost everything is done by hand. Including lugging pails of concrete along a work gang that must finish pouring a roof in only one afternoon.
Earlier this summer, I told you about the construction of a new OXXO store in my neighborhood (does that translate to hugs and kisses?; hugs and kisses; not ready for prime time). I was amazed how quickly it grew out of the ground.
But, one thing baffled me. Why was it built so deep into the residential neighborhood? It turns out, my Mexican neighbors have been shopping there a lot. A large number with credit cards. But, most OXXOs thrive on tourist trade. And there has been just a trickle of that.
I should not have been surprised. When I bought the house, it was on the eastern edge of Barra de Navidad. Since then, the neighborhood has grown. New houses. A restaurant. A bakery. An indoor football field built outside. A beach wear shop that morphed into a gift shop then an abarrote and is now a carnitas stand. The only construction that seems stalled is a storage-retail enterprise that re-starts construction only when the Canadian owner is in town.
Ours is a dynamic Mexican neighborhood. The type of place my anti-tradition friend Maria in Mexico City believes represents the true spirit of Mexico.
And I think I now know why that OXXO is where it is. I was correct that it was built as a tourist magnet. I just did not know from where the source of tourists would come. I do now.
When I returned from San Miguel de Allende, I noticed men laying out lines of lime on the empty lots across the street from the hardware store on Nueva España, the main street a block south of my house. My brother was a contractor. So, I knew what was about to happen. A new building was on its way. I just did not know what kind.
On Monday, a backhoe was digging footings. Large footings. I asked him if it was a house or a business. He told me: "It is a hotel."
That seemed odd. I walked across the street to talk with Sergio, the hardware man. He seems to know most everything about construction in the neighborhood. He said the same thing. A hotel.
Now, "hotel" can mean all kinds of establishments. I am quite certain that it is not a Four Seasons all-inclusive resort. This is Barra de Navidad and the footprint is too small.
But, there are lots of other possibilities. A boutique hotel to rival those in New York's Soho? A set of bungalows for families? Maybe a hot-sheet love motel similar to the one that squats over Felipe's wall in the highlands?
I have no idea. Even though I am intrigued with the idea of one of Mexico's love nests settling down in my neighborhood. It would certainly spice up the character of the street.
Instead, we will probably get the Mexican equivalent of a Motel 6. And that will also be fine. We have a carnitas stand, a bakery, a restaurant, an Oxxo, and in indoor football field built outdoors to keep our new visitors amused.
Who could ask for anything more than that for a visit to the beach?
And if you think that is enough, here is Madonna with one of Stephen Sondheim's derivative ditties to convince you otherwise.
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