I am not a tall man -- by American standards. But compared to my Mexican neighbors, I have height.
That is why I am baffled by a plumbing oddity I have encountered several times in Mexico.
This urinal is in a new restaurant on the highway near Melaque. It has very good food. But now and then I need to visit the rest room.
Let me give you a bit of perspective on the urinal. The bottom lip of the ceramic hits me almost at my belt level. And that creates some logistical issues.
And this is not the only urinal I have encountered that is mounted on the wall more as an art exhibit than as a utilitarian tool. At least a third of the urinals in highway rest areas fall into the same category.
If I have a problem figuring out the Rube Goldberg aspect of these high-hung artifacts, I cannot imagine how most Mexican men use them. I guess there is an obvious possibility there, but I am not going down that road.
Maybe I should simply put an orange crate in the back of my new Escape. It couldn't hurt.
Where are Jonathan Swift and Mark Twain when we need them?
Take this headline from yesterday's The Oregonian -- "Kitzhaber seeks a measure of happiness for Oregon." While the legislature plots ways to increase the tax burden of its citizens, the governor of Oregon is slipping away to a high-end resort in Bhutan to learn more about the "gross national happiness" index.
The concept is not new. Advocates of a certain political bent have long argued that the "gross domestic product" (GDP) is a far too limited tool to measure economic progress. Instead, governments should measure the economic progress of their country with an index that takes into account other factors. The result is a scientific-sounding number that measures national happiness.
The number of happiness formulas is limited only by the political agendas of the number crunchers. Take this example from the Happy Planet (a name that conjures up egg roll appetizers) Index people.
Their index is based on "experienced well-being" (how people self-report their own happiness), national life expectancy, and the country's "ecological footprint" (a per capita measure of the amount of land required
to sustain a country’s consumption patterns).
Those three numbers are then arithmetically manipulated to create another number to reveal, mirabile dictu, a guide for governments to justify additional intervention in the lives of private citizens. The equivalent of senior citizens gathering over coffee to discuss their cholesterol levels.
As silly as the phony scientific patina sounds, the resulting national rankings reveal the weakness of the project. The Happy Planet Index tells us places like Cuba and Bangladesh are the world's national Disneylands. But change the indicators a bit and the sullen Danes are the world's smiley faces.
The Kitzhaber trek to find Shangri-La struck me as doubly ironic last night. I was reading Ross Douthat's critique of contemporary American religious thought in Bad Religion, and hit this speed bump. To paraphrase Douthat: for many Americans, there is no higher philosophical attainment than a universal goal of harmony and happiness.
Of course, the goal of seeking happiness is not new in America thought. It is one of Tom Jefferson's big three examples of the unalienable rights God has given mankind. Over time, though, that pursuit of happiness has slipped away from its contextual moorings of loving one's neighbor as one self into a more solipsistic pursuit.
Or, as Douthat puts it: "But a tolerant society is not necessarily a just one. Men may smile at their neighbors without loving them and decline to judge their fellow citizens' beliefs out of a broader indifference to their fate."
This past week we have seen the "pursuit of happiness" put to the test in Boston where evil once again touched a public event. I find it interesting that we often see the best aspects of the American character when they confront tragedies like this.
With the smoke still in the air, ordinary neighbors waded into the chaos to help their injured neighbors. With no sense of personal gain. Often in disregard of their personal safety.
We have a word for this. Heroes.
There is much that is wrong in American society these days. But we tend to disregard the underlying strength of American virtue. The type of spirit where neighbors voluntarily gather to help raise barns -- all without the demands of governments or the happiness nags.
I wish Governor Kitzhaber well in his quest for happiness. I suspect, though, if he simply spent more time talking to his fellow citizens, he would discover that Oregonians understand true joy far better than the abacus set.
For at least thirty years I have driven past the Marion Forks Restaurant on the Santiam highway between Salem and Bend.
I have noticed the place for two reasons. First, the restaurant marks the half-way point on the Salem-Bend trip through the Cascades.
But that is not what has caught my eye over the years. The place looks as if it embodies what is good about the American spirit. Scenic. Rustic. Optimistic.
Optimistic because even though it is on a very busy highway, whenever I drive past, the same two trucks seem to be parked there. And nothing more.
The site once housed a fishing lodge long before the highway was built. The lodge disappeared in a fire decades ago -- to be replaced by the current restaurant on a site closer to the river in 1973.
But I have never stopped there. Until today.
It is the Cotton Syndrome
writ large. No matter how curious I have been, the “keep driving”
attitude has kept me from pulling off the highway.
This morning I left Salem heading back to my brother’s ranch in Bend. The trip was going well. Light traffic. Plenty of rain, but no snow.
Near the summit of the pass, a construction crew stopped the traffic. That is when I noticed it. My fuel light was on -- and the needle was well below the red on the “Empty” indicator.
I knew the nearest gas station was on the other side of the pass was in Sisters. And I doubted I could make it. So, I turned around -- in the hope I could make it back the 30 or so miles to the nearest town.
When I made it to Marion Forks, I decided to play a hunch. Maybe the proprietor would have a can of gas I could buy. Just to ensure I could make it to a station.
And I was correct. I barely got the first words of my dilemma out of my mouth, and the guy who runs the restaurant -- Wayne Rettinger -- offered to sell me two gallons of gas.
That was enough to get me the rest of the way to Detroit. On the way back, I decided it was time I indulged in an American tradition at the restaurant.
I ordered a piece of lemon meringue pie and a cup of coffee. And had a fascinating conversation with Wayne about the history of the place and the joys of running a restaurant in the wilds of the Cascades.
Several readers have commented on the “charmed” life I lead. I like to think of it as a blessed life.
But I do know something. Sometimes it helps to stop and meet people along the path of life. Good Samaritans abound.
Thanks, Wayne for helping me along the journey. And for a piece of pie that will be as memorable as the trip.
Talk about symbolism.
I woke up this morning in Olympia. And this is what I saw through my bathroom window. The sun rising behind Mount Rainier.
Well, what I saw was much better. Instead of this rather impressionistic smear of colors. And that is a polite description. Out-of-focus amateur photography is closer to the mark.
My trek north is drawing to a close. I ended my two-day visit with Ken and Patti, and drove south to Salem -- for one primary purpose. To close and consolidate my bank accounts.
My credit union would not allow me to close my account without seeing my shiny face. So, appear I did. That task is done.
But I still have no answer to the question of how to get a pile of pesos to the car dealership in Guadalajara. The test deposit I made from my Banamex account on the day I left never made it to the intended account.
My mama did not raise a fool. At least, not a fool who will send 400,000 pesos into the electronic ether without having a vague idea of the destination.
I should be able to get an answer from my soon-to-be-former bank in Salem. If not, I will check with BanamexUSA.
If that fails I may need to return to Melaque to talk with my bank manager. I have learned one thing. The Banamex web page is almost indecipherable. And I don't need to make a mistake of that size.
One way or other, I am going to get that new Escape.
Today is about as multi-cultural as a day can be.
Ken and Patti's daughter, Kimmy, is attending her senior prom in a couple of weeks. That means shopping for a prom dress. A custom of which I know nothing.
But I do now. Patti had found a store filled with exotic choices. The store name -- Tacoma Discount World -- did not hint at its contents.
I recognized it the moment I walked in.
The gown choices looked as if they were a combination of a Mexican beauty contest and a quinceañera. With colors that could be found in nature only in the higher reaches of the Amazon.
We left gownless. But my multi-cultural evening was not over.
Ken and Patti are neighbors, and close friends, to Fijians of Indian ancestry. They invited us over to meet a Fijian national hero -- Waisale Serevi. A member of the Rugby Hall of Fame. Nicknamed "King of Sevens."
It was a great evening. I am hardly an expert on rugby. But we shared sports tales -- over three servings of kava. And that was a first for me, as well. People who say kava is relaxing are not exaggerating. Its reputation as a calming agent is well-deserved.
Well-deserved enough that I am on my way to bed for a nice sleep.
Tomorrow -- I am on the road to Salem.
I hate to plan. Even for major events.
And that usually serves me well. The best example recently was my decision to buy a new Mexican-licensed SUV -- after driving the Shiftless Escape out of the country.
A little back story may help. When I decided to apply for a permanent resident visa, one question that was still unresolved was whether a permanent resident could own a duty-free vehicle in Mexico.
My instinct told me the answer was ”no.” Owning a tax-free vehicle did not seem to be consistent with the notion of permanent residency.
But there were rumors everywhere. Partly because the Custom folks (Aduana) had not yet made final decisions on how to deal with the new visa regimen.
The decision of whether to risk a fine by maintaining a foreign-plated vehicle was rather easy for me. It was time for a new vehicle. If I drove the Escape out of the country, I would be legal -- no matter what Aduana decided.
That may have been a wise decision. While I was in Pátzcuaro this summer I met Kathy Butler while volunteering with the El Sagrario program -- providing daily meals for the elderly and poor. (seduced by my own threads)
Kathy posted a story on the Morelia message board. Apparently, Aduana in the Morelia area is getting very serious about cracking down on duty-free vehicles owned by people with visa irregularities. Including people with permanent resident visas.
She reported that a friend of hers was driving near Pátzcuaro when he was stopped by what may have been the fiscal police who work for Aduana. The friend had started the process of legally importing the vehicle. But the car had not yet been licensed in Mexico.
Several vehicles had been stopped and were being trucked away by the police. Kathy’s friend managed to drive the car away. Others were not so lucky.
I trust Kathy. I do not know her friend. But the incident certainly sounds plausible. And it is consistent with a blog that has carefully been following the issue in Yucatán. Options for Foreign-Plated “TIP” Car Owners in Mexico, esp for Permanent Residents
The writer points out: ”[T]he current official Aduana policy still leaves Residente Permanente card holders on the hook – making their TIPs invalid, and making the TIP cars illegal to drive in Mexico, unless you get a Safe Returns permit or permanently import the car.” He then provides a list of interesting options: Including: remove the vehicle from Mexico; park the vehicle and wait for legislative action; legally import the vehicle; among other possibilities.
I chose the first option. Others may be more interested in rolling the dice.
If I lived in the highlands, I would not have even thought about taking the risk. The only time any Mexican official checked my duty-free documents was on a summer trip to San Miguel de Allende last year.
But none of those concerns will now be mine. There is a shiny Mexican license plate in my future.
Saturday was my sabbath from driving.
I spent most of the day with my brother and sister-in-law on their ranch. Talking. Watching movies. Doing the odd chore.
But that was enough rest. On Sunday I was ready for another trip. This time it would be the 272 miles to Olympia to see my friends Ken and Patti.
You remember Patti. I wrote about her battle with liver cancer in pulling for patti In February, she underwent a successful surgery to remove the tumors from her liver -- and is now halfway through her chemotherapy treatment. In her words, ”She is two-thirds of the way there.”
Because I have no idea how long I will be north on this trip, seeing Patti was top on my list.
One constant on our trip from Mexico was sunshine. That was not what greeted me on the quick five-hour trip to Olympia.
To get from Bend to the Willamette Valley, a driver needs to cross the Cascades. In April, that can mean heavy snow, ice, rain, or -- clear roads. What I got was a bit of snow and a few miles of ice. As you can see in the photograph at the top of this post.
That was a fair trade to see snow-frosted Douglas firs. Almost as good as Christmas.
The snow was a snap for what met me on the other side of the Cascades. April rains are as common in the Willamette Valley as insipid commercials on television.
And that is what I got. Several miles of monsoon-like rain. Where cars simply disappeared in front of me into a watery void. Along with an onslaught of hail that left drifts along the road.
As odd as it sounds, it was nice to see a variety of weather. After all, sunshine every day can be monotonous.
So, here are my thoughts. I will enjoy a day or two in Olympia -- and I will then be on my way to Salem to settle some financial matters to buy the new Escape.
But, for now, I am simply going to enjoy time with Ken and Patti.
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