plato of food

I had a fine plate of irony for lunch this week.


What else would you call a Mexican resident who visits Salem and orders up a combination plate at a local Mexican restaurant?


Let's start with the obvious.  Even though the restaurant styles itself as serving Jalisco-style food, I have never seen a plate that looks anything like this in Melaque -- an authentic Jalisco village.  Not even the usual police lineup of eateries that cater to Canadian and American tastes.


But I was not there merely to eat.  I was meeting my good friend, John.


You have had the pleasure of meeting him on these pages.  PhD in philosophy.  Family man.  Raconteur.


He is a regular commenter -- under an alias.  I will let you guess which.


If I ever need good conversation, I call John.


Our exchange this week was a mixture of the serious and frivolous.  Our usual quasi-intellectual brew. 


The spice is that the two of us could not be further apart from one another on issues of faith and government.  That is what makes us such good friends.  There is nothing less satisfying than talking with people who agree with your position.


We do agree on basic moral principles.  Where we differ is on our conclusions.


Accepting that possibility is what makes a civilization civil.  The antithesis is Somalia -- or, at least, Bosnia.


While we were talking, I thought of a young man I talked with earlier in the week.  We share the same faith principles.  Our notion of truth could have been painted on Plato's wall.


Where we disagree is on some of the conclusions to be drawn from those principles.  I consider that ambiguity to be a sign of maturity.  He views it as vague heresy.


But it is that type of strict Aristotelian thought that strangles civility on the field of conformity.  It is what frightens some of us about political correctness and most forms of political and religious fundamentalism -- from both the right and the left.


It certainly leads to unpleasant lunch conversations.


John and I did not fall into that unpleasantness.  When we parted, I was sorry to see him go -- and to know that will be the last lunch with him for some time.


But I can now return to Mexico and have a plate of food that I will recognize as being truly Jalisco fare.


Soon.

streets of laredo

She was an Aztec goddess.


He was an Air Force pilot.

 
Or, rather, he was training to be one.


In a time long ago: Richard Nixon had not yet been reelected president.


But it was not in a galaxy far, far away. She lived in Nuevo Laredo; he in Laredo.


They were in love. Or what passes for love for young people in their twenties.


The world was filled with unlimited potential joys. But he had Qualms. He did not drink booze or use drugs, and fast cars were available only if borrowed. But there were always fast women.


Where they first met is stuffed in a dark corner of his memory -- behind his telephone number in the 1960s and the word for that electronic instrument used in horror films.


Was it at the officers' club? Downtown Laredo? At a friend's party?


His favorite theory is that she intervened in Nuevo Laredo when an older man with a hard-scrabble mustache and a red eye patch approached him with the hissed invitation to purchase "Spanish fly."


Nuevo Laredo had its own form of performance street art.


She asked him to call her "Linda." That was not her name, but neither of them could recall her given name.


She dreamed of being married to a blond American and living in a large house in Connecticut. The state's name enthralled her after she read it in a Mark Twain novel. After all, it had the word "Yankee" in the title.


She was beautiful. Petite. Raven-haired. Ebony-eyed. But it was her face that escaped the gravitational pull of cliché.


Her high cheekbones showed a hint of Indian heritage. But her skin and lips were as Spanish as any Criolle.


Lord Byron's love may have walked in beauty like the night. But "Linda" was the very beauty of the night.


Young men in their twenties say such things. With no shame.


At 26, she was four years older than her pilot trainee. To him, she was as exotically sophisticated as a Hapsburg princess.


In his Miracle Whip world, their relationship would have been fodder for gossip. The closest thing to Mexico he had seen was taco shells and jumping beans. In Laredo, they were simply part of the landscape.


For three months, they were inseparable. When he would return from his supersonic world, she would soar with him in her universe. He led her to believe that she taught him to dance. It was a lie. But she taught him different steps.


It was never going to be a long romance. He eventually stood in the kitchen with new orders in his hands for assignments far from Laredo.


There were tears. Promises. And other lies.


But they both knew. It was over.


At least, the moment was.


She became part of him. Her love for adventure. Her ability to find new in the mundane.


On some lonely nights, he sits in his Mexican home and he focuses his attention on what was and who he is because of her.


And he wonders if she ever found her permanent ticket to cross the border into her dream.

icon on the horizon

Icons.


We all have them. Physical objects that represent higher truths.


Mt. Hood is one of mine.


More than just the tallest mountain in Oregon, it is my icon of home.


Boy Scout camp. Family tubing. Skiing. Partying. For 22 years, it was my playground.


Then the Air Force called. For five years I left Oregon. My visits home were infrequent. But whenever my plane would approach PDX, I first looked for that distinctive almost-dormant volcano to welcome me back.


When I fly home from Manzanillo these days, I do not see Mt Hood. The flight arrives at PDX around midnight. Even the vampire-late sunlight of Oregon summer does not stay bright that late.


On this trip north, my brother drove my mother and me to Bend for Christmas.


I know the route. And the scenery. But seeing Mt. Hood was as thrilling as the first time I saw it.


I am home -- for now.

connections

Before the three kings arrive on the 6th and Christmas starts morphing into the Mexican fiesta calendar, I thought I would publish my version of a yule police lineup.


The photograph on the left is this year's record-breaking (and traffic-snarling) Christmas tree in Mexico City. Beautifully photographed by my friend and fellow blogger, Gary Denness.


The photograph on the right is the much-maligned spire of La Parroquia in San Miguel de Allende.


Is it just me or do they look like fraternal twins separated at birth?


I am reluctant to draw the conclusion for fear that the Magic Kingdom Gang will get some clever ideas on how to dress up the SMA churches for Christmas next year. Richard, are you listening?


After all, 2010 is going to be a big year for Mexico -- 100 years since the Revolution; 200 years since Independence. There will be plenty of opportunities for dress-up this year.

salted (micro) chips

Harry Chapin is softly serenading from the grave.

It seems I've been here before;
I can't remember when;
But I have this funny feeling,
That we'll all be together again.

Well. I remember when.


I am sitting in the library of my house in Salem looking out at my rather ragged back yard. But it is a familiar scene. This has been my writing perch for several years. This -- and the hot tub.


The last time I sat here writing was April 2009. Just nine months ago.


I had just purchased a snazzy new Sony notebook -- my designated writing tool for my move to Mexico. I knew then that I would be putting it in great danger by living near the sea -- with its salty mortality. (a new star in the firmament)


And you all know how that tale of woe went. Within two months, the briny air was having its way with the computer. In December, it simply died.


I now sit in the same spot in my library composing on a computer.


Now, I know that most of you may not be interested in the specifics. But several of you have asked what I bought as a replacement.


It is an HP Pavilion dv6-1375dx.


Is it just me or do computer model names simply lack any sex appeal? Cars once had names that reflected their personalities: Imperial, Viper, Phaeton.


But dv6-1375dx? It sounds like the part number for industrial shelving.


Notwithstanding the moniker, it is a nice computer. The processor is an Intel Core 2 duo with 6GB of DDR3 memory. Fast. Really fast.


It is two pounds heavier and nowhere as handsome as my deceased Sony. Had I taken the time to research what I really wanted, I probably would not have bought this machine. But the quick buy gave me the opportunity to get back on line for my infrequent posts on this trip.


On Saturday, I will fly back to Melaque and my adventure in Mexico. After all, the effervescent Babs is in town.


It is time for another spin on the circle that is my life.

time in a bottle

God is chuckling.


My plan was to return to Mexico on Saturday after two weeks in Oregon. But some very interesting circumstances changed my plans.


I will be here for another week.


There are two good reasons to live in Mexico: 1) lower cost of living and 2) high quality health care. My change in travel plans highlighted both.


My doctor in Mexico has prescribed two medications for my high blood pressure. When I left Melaque last month, I packed enough medication to carry me through my planned two-week stay.


Short of a Chanukah miracle, two weeks of medications were not going to stretch three weeks. And they didn't.


In Mexico, when I need medications, I merely drop into one of the multiple village farmacias with the name of the drug I want to buy. No prescriptions. No health insurance card. As if I were buying a packet of aspirin.


Not in Oregon. I stopped by my local Safeway pharmacy with the empty medication boxes. It was almost a scene from Cheers -- with controlled substances playing the role of draft ales. The pharmacist and her two assistants greeted me with: "Steve!"


And that is where the bonhomie ended. The pharmacist looked at the empty boxes, punched up my computer information, and donned the face professionals affect when they are about to deliver bad news. A mix of regret, compassion, and pity.


Well, only half bad news. My prescription for one of the drugs was still open -- even after nine months. She could sell me a two-week supply.


But the other drug required a prescription, and my paperwork from Mexico simply did not meet the legal requirements of the political fun-suckers.


Even we libertarians are prepared to admit that long-term medications should be monitored by a doctor. Mine are.


But without a prescription from an American doctor, I was not going to be afforded any of the benefits of the free market system.


In Mexico, if I needed something from my doctor on a weekend, I would find her either in her office or by walking to her house down the block from my apartment. Just like my family did in rural Oregon in the 1950s.


In Oregon, I could not see my doctor until late January.


One of the creative problem-solvers I talked to suggested that I fake a heart attack in an emergency room. It appealed to my dramatic side. But I didn't want to incur a $1000 bill merely to get a prescription.


And that brings up the second advantage of living in Mexico: cost of living.


In Melaque, I pay less than the equivalent of $3 (USD) for a 40-day supply of medications. Safeway charged me $34.99 for a 14-day supply.


To be fair, not all medications cost less in Mexico. I asked the pharmacist the cost of the drug she could not dispense. It would cost one-third less than what I pay in Mexico. And it is expensive enough to wipe out the savings on the other medication.


The next time I head north, I will pack enough medication to put the TSA and Customs boys in a tizzy.


I can then see what else will occur to cause the Divine Chuckle.

mexi-irish rose -- part ii

The American army was small when the war began. Without new recruits, the Americans had no chance of defeating the Mexican defenders.


The army found a receptive group of recruits in newly-arrived immigrants from Ireland and Germany -- some with experience in European wars. Most were Catholics and had entered the war to escape a deep recession and religious discrimination in their new home.


That proved to be a mistake. Catholic soldiers received harsher punishment for military violations than their fellow Protestants -- a prejudice born of a nativist movement that swept The States in the 1840s.


The Mexican generals were experts at playing to the aggrieved Catholic soldiers, They distributed fliers pointing out that Mexicans were their co-religionists, and offered both land and the possibility of officer commissions to any soldier that who would desert and fight for Mexico -- something the immigrants could not expect to attain from the American army.


It worked. Enough German and Irish recruits deserted to form a full battalion -- the San Patricio Battalion. And not just any battalion. They formed an artillery battalion, partially armed with captured American guns.


The battalion made a big difference in several battles -- inflicting severe casualties on their former American colleagues. But the war went from disaster to disaster for the Mexican forces until the Mexican people refused to support General Santa Anna any further.


Mexico lost almost 60% of its territory as a result of the war. The San Patricio Battalion would suffer a worse fate. Of those who were captured, 46 were hanged and 15 were whipped and branded.


There is evidence that some members of the battalion escaped and received their promised land in Mexico. But none of that answers the question whether San Patricio (the village) was involved in any way related to the San Patricio Battalion.


I talked with a local official in San Patricio who told me he believed there was a connection -- for the same reason he believed in the authenticity of the Guadalupe cloak. He just did.


As he put it: "You don't understand the mystery of Mexico. Thinking about this simply destroys its beauty. Myth is true. Facts are lies. If you want it to be true -- it is."


I can appreciate the utility of myth. But I am a product of the Enlightenment. I need to see proof before I will believe.


Where does that leave me?


I am going to continue my search as long as I remain in Mexico. Even if the answer is simply that there is no answer. I can live with that.


Hercule Poirot or not.