Jesus may have been talking to his disciples when he uttered the phrase, but it certainly came to mind when I answered the telephone late Friday afternoon.
The female voice on the other end asked for me by name -- in Spanish. Inquiring if I was still in Mexico. But the words came in a flood after that. I confessed my language failing -- in my faltering Spanish.
The next voice was male. In English. Saying that he had my new car. At least, That is what I heard. But I was confused. I hadn't sent my purchase money to the dealership, yet. How could my new car have already arrived?
A few work volleys across the verbal net, and I was profusely apologizing. It wasn't my new car that was available, but my new card. My permanent resident visa. I needed to stop by the Manzanillo office to pick it up at 9 AM on Monday.
I have already confessed my agnosticism about having enough faith in Mexican bureaucracy that my visa would be approved in the equivalent of seven business days. (last plane to lisbon) But I was wrong.
It turns out that I did not need to spend that 320 pesos for my letters of transit. Instead, I can head north with my new visa -- even though it may delay our departure by a couple of hours. And we will discover if there is any problem with turning in my duty-free vehicle decal when I now have a visa that does not (or may not) qualify for duty-free status.
I am certain there will be a story there. And probably plenty more as Darrel and I do a reprise of our brother road trip -- but in reverse.
Note -- I usually post something about Mexico's return to daylight saving time on this weekend each year. But, not today. If you didn't already switch your clock forward an hour, you may be late for something. But no one is going to notice or care. That is another benefit for those of us who are temporally challenged -- and live tranquilly in Mexico.
Blogging is an interesting pursuit.
You think you have a great topic and start writing about it. Permanent resident visa. Wall construction. Internet access to my bank account. And, right in mid-sentence, a better story wanders on stage.
I will let you know about those other three topics in a day or two. But today, class, we are back to one of the chief reasons I live in Mexico. High quality, affordable health care. Something Canada and the United States are never going to see with their current setups.
While I was in Oregon in January, I started developing a small infection on my left upper molar. It didn't seem like much. Almost as if I had trapped a bit of popcorn kernel between my teeth.
But I was not so lucky. Within days, it had become so infected, I could not close my teeth together. What was odd is that I knew I had had a root canal on that tooth. The pain was not coming from the tooth.
My house sitter could not take any more of my belly and tooth-aching, and drove me to Salem Hospital's emergency room. I predicted I had either a severe case of gingivitis, an abscess, or bone damage.
I will fast forward through this part of the story. The 12-year old doctor who examined me could not give me a diagnosis, but he did insist on prescriptions for antibiotics (that I did take) and Vicodin (that I did not). His sole advice: see a dentist.
The total expense? $479.92 (US) for the hospital and $253 (US) for the doctor.
In February I had a relapse. My Mexican doctor examined me ($300 MX -- $24.48 US) and prescribed another dose of antibiotics ($246 MX -- $20.07 US). You might notice a slight disparity between the Mexican and American medical costs.
I was hoping I could avoid a trip to the dentist. The hope was short-lived.
This week, the pain returned and my gum began to severely recede. There was no more putting off what needed to be done.
So, I sat myself down in Dr. Pimienta's chair, explained my situation, and he was deep in my mouth before I could say "where's the needle?"
I am not a fan of dentists. Even though I am not certain why. I have a rather high tolerance for pain. But I managed once to sprain a finger while having my teeth cleaned. Let's just say I have a rather complex relationship with the drill set.
If I had not been repeatedly pressing down on the infected area with my tongue, I would have been shocked at the level of pain that shot through me when he stuck his probe underneath my gum and asked if I could feel that he was hitting bone immediately. I could.
His diagnosis. Neither gingivitis nor an abscess. I had some serious bone deterioration going on. And that meant potentially a rather big surgery -- a bone graft from a dentist in Guadalajara.
Color me odd, but I am rather excited about the possibility of experiencing a new surgery. I suspect that it is hideously painful -- at least it holds that promise. But it could be an interesting foray into Mexican medicine. And I will do next to anything for a good story.
But the surgery appointment will need to go on hold until I return from my drive north. So, Dr. Pimienta packed my gums with an antibiotic and sent me on my way.
Oh, wait, I forgot something. For all of that treatment, my dental bill was $300 (MX). $24.48 (US). What it would have cost to park a car at an American hospital.
Next month, I will undoubtedly see the specialist in Guadalajara to determine if a bone graft is really what I need.
Until then, I am keeping my teeth crossed that the pain holds off.
Yesterday, I re-baited the "move the family to Mexico" trap.
My first ploy -- the giant casa narco -- was bought before I could use it as a lure. (wooing the family) A great family compound for my mother, brother, his wife, and me.
But it was gone before I could return. Having failed with my royal flush, I decided to try for an inside straight.
During this blog's great house hunt contest, the house that came in second -- but well behind "stay where you are" -- was casa mia. (casa mia -- candidate number 3) A well-designed 2-bedroom beach house with as little pretension as its neighborhood.
Darrel had walked through the place four years ago. He still likes it.
For Mom, it was a first-time visit. Well, almost. Like the rest of you, she had read about it and seen enough photographs that she knew what to expect.
I am still a bit ambivalent about buying property -- anywhere. Even with bedroom air conditioning, the summers are a bit fitful here. And I am not certain I am ready to live wall-to-wall with my neighbors.
And, of course, there is the recently-learned lesson that houses are merely Stuff magnets. I am certainly not ready to fall into the acquisition syndrome again.
What I do like about the location is that I have Mexican restauranteurs on both sides of the house. As food-cetric as I am, that may be the house's best recommendation.
With two bedrooms, I am not going to meet my family compound fantasy. But that is probably becoming more of a fantasy every day.
My brother would move here at the drop of a sombrero. Not so, my mother. She has thoroughly enjoyed the visit. But I suspect I would have trouble uprooting her from Bend.
But stranger things have happened.
When I return to Melaque with my new Escape and shiny permanent resident card, I am going to do some serious thinking whether casa mia should become -- casa mia.
For those of you who might be interested in knowing more -- here is the listing online.
This post is about the charms of colonial Colima enjoyed by the family Cotton on their trek away from Melaque.
The architecture. The museums. The churches. The squares. Beautiful. Enchanting. Dare I use the sacred word -- magical.
The problem is that it did not happen. And it didn't because we are the people who we are.
We were on the road to Guadalajara yesterday at 6 AM with only one mission in mind. To satisfy my desire for a 2013 Escape with Mexican plates.
We had stopped at the Manzanillo Ford dealer last week, but the offerings were slim -- to be kind. Two basic models. Nothing more.
I had even toyed with the idea of hiring an agent in Ajijic to assist me with the sale and to then get my new SUV to me at the airport when I fly down later in the month.
But he was too slow on the uptake. I was ready to deal, and I have enough self-confidence to boldly go where -- well, you know the rest.
The three of us started looking at Escapes on the dealer's floor in Guadalajara. Before too long, an English-speaking salesman (self-taught from television, so says he) appeared to show us what his dealership had to offer.
I took a perfunctory test drive. One of those American customs that satisfied my curiosity, but added nothing to my knowledge base.
Then, we sat down to hammer out what options I wanted. It appears that the SE model has everything I want -- with the exception of one electronic gadget -- that the salesman is still tracking down for me.
Here is the drill. I will head north and close down my bank accounts -- consolidating them with my Banamex account. As soon as I transfer the money to my Mexican bank account, my bank manager will electronically send the money to the dealership. Three days later, I will show up in Guadalajara, greeted at the airport by my new SUV, and I will be on my way to Manzanillo to pick up my permanent resident visa.
All three of us had a sense of accomplishment. We walked around Costco and decided to head back to Melaque or to stop at Colima -- whichever mood struck us.
A half-way mood stepped up to bat while we were driving by Colima. We decided to drive through the central area to see if w wanted to spend the night.
We are not a touring people. With one good look at the cathedral square and surrounding buildings, we were on our way back to Melaque.
So far, I have not shown Mom and Darrel much of Mexico. But we love family projects. And my quest for a permanent resident visa and its step-child, the new SUV, certainly falls into that category.
We still have a few more days to taste the more exotic offerings of my little village. That does not include the world's worst transvestite show.
If my life is a television situation comedy, the supporting cast keeps changing.
First, my brother drops out of the cast -- and then re-appears three seasons later. The writers killed off my faithful pal Professor Jiggs half-way through the first season. And now the Shiftless Escape is about to exit stage north.
I am not certain who -- I suspect it was Felipe -- notified me that Ford had completely redesigned the Escape for 2013, Because I love change, I immediately found some photographs on line, and was underwhelmed. It looked about as sexless as a Honda.
When I saw one at a Ford dealership up north, I was a bit put off with the structural blind spots created by the new sculpting. And the price -- hovering around $40 K for the top model.
But it grew on me each time I looked at it. And because I have been profoundly happy with my old Escape, I decided to buy one here in Mexico.
Now, the search begins. Price is not an issue of where to buy in Mexico. All dealers sell at the manufactured list price.
And, unlike American dealers, there is not a large inventory sitting on the lot just waiting for the right buyer to come along. Most new cars are specifically ordered.
I am hoping I can see a better variety of inventory by driving up to Guadalajara today. The three of us are heading out around 6 AM or so. If we have time, we will swing through Colima on the way back and spend the night there.
Or we may just do something entirely different. After all, we are writing this sitcom for ourselves.
When we return, I hope to have some information to share on buying a new car in Mexico.
"Look, Rick, do you know what this is? Something that even you have never seen. Letters of transit signed by General de Gaulle. Cannot be rescinded, not even questioned."
So says Ugarte to Rick referring to one of filmdom's great MacGuffins. In this case, the letters of transit that propel the plot of Casablanca, and have had fans debating for years whether Lorre's accented speech refers to General de Gaulle or Marshal Weygand.
I am in the de Gaulle camp. As implausible as that reading may be.
So why I am rattling on about 1940s film arcana? Because I have my own MacGuffin. Or, rather anti-MacGuffin.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
On Monday morning I got up early enough to head off to Manzanillo in an attempt to be first in line to talk to an immigration clerk. When I applied for my permanent resident visa, the professional clerk who helped me told me I could get a temporary exit letter if I needed to leave the country temporarily while my visa was being processed.
At the time, I thought I would wait for my new visa until I headed north. But, as all plans do, that one crumpled with its first contact with reality. I need to get the Escape out of Mexico before my new visa arrives. Thus the need for the storied letter.
A contributor to our local message board told me he had done it twice. And the process was same-day service easy. One photo, a copy of my passport photo page, a copy of the receipt showing my application is being considered, and $320 (Mx) was all I needed.
When I told the clerk what I wanted, and that I most likely would not leave Mexico for another week, she told me I should wait the full week to see if my permanent resident card would be issued by then.
Even after I pointed out that I had applied only last Monday and her office had been closed for the weekend and three week days, her answer was optimistically Mexican. "It's possible."
And she thought it was possible enough that she asked for my mobile telephone number to let me know when the visa arrives.
I was not that optimistic. So, I asked her to process the letter.
And, unlike Ugarte, I walked away with my letter of transit in hand.
Dealing with the visa and vehicle bureaucracy has stolen far too much time from my visit with my family. But, I at least have some target dates for the rest of their visit.
I need to get the Escape out of Mexico by 13 April -- the day the Mexican insurance expires -- and hopefully before my permanent resident visa is issued. Darrel and I will turn the evacuation into our own road trip adventure.
Mom will fly north next week.
Probably the day before we leave. I was fortunate to find a seat for her. The airplane was almost completely booked with snow birds migrating to their lands of origin.
That means we still have almost a full week to see a bit more of Mexico. Even though they seem to be happy relaxing in the garden with their respective Kindles.
But there are things to be seen before this chapter of our lives together ends.
I was having breakfast with my brother and mother this weekend at Rooster's -- one of my favorite hangouts.
My brother, looking over my left shoulder, started laughing. I turned around to see a commercial that combined all of the elements of this season. Semana santa. Mexico. John Paul II.
It is hard to describe the affection that Mexicans afford to the late pope. As far as they are concerned, he was their pope. And adoration for him approaches -- if not exceeds -- that given to Our Lady of Guadalupe.
If you have been to the cathedral in Mexico City, you have undoubtedly noticed a very kitschy statute of John Paul II. If you look carefully, you will discover the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the folds of his robe.
What Darrel was chuckling about was a digital rosary. And not just any digital rosary. John Paul II's digital rosary. El Rosario electrónico de Juan Pablo II.
The instructions are simple. Merely select the day of the week, and John Paul's voice will pray the rosary with you.
Of course, the device is not that different from the electronic Bible library on my laptop and telephone that allows me to read through the Bible each year. It is merely a new way to indulge in tradition.
After all, some people follow along in the Bible with Charlton Heston's voice on DVD.
And who am I to pit the voice of Hollywood's God against the voice of the departed Bishop of Rome?
We find our faith down many paths. Paths that help us show our love for God and for one another.
