Darrel is in town.
But, if you have been reading along, you already know that. And he could not have arrived at a better time. San Patricio is in full fiesta bloom.
By the time he arrived yesterday, the skim board competition was over. That is too bad. It is one of the more photogenic events of the season. The best competitors from at least the west coast are in town. Along with their retinues.
But the real event comes in the evening when the village, and its many visitors, doff their collective problems, and devote themselves to simply having a good time. That joy comes in many packages.
Like spending the evening at the carnival.
Where you can imagine you are a pilot.
Or that the world is a cornucopia of sweets.
Except when it is filled with cut-rate hot dogs with all of the trimmings.
You can even win a packet of cookies for your girl (or yourself) by outwitting the fixed odds upon which carnies thrive. In two nights of observing this "game," I never saw one packet of cookies walk away from those spinning disks.
But the star attraction sits in front of the church. After all, this is a religious holiday.
You can see it at the right. The castillo. A tower of tiered fireworks with spinning wheels, Roman candles, and a cartload of rockets that shoot directly into the audience.
This was Darrel's first encounter with this devilish bit of Mexican entertainment. So, I got him a front row seat. As a rule, that means we would be scorched by rockets.
We weren't. Even though several whizzed past our heads, we were left unscathed. Almost.
This year there was a bit of improvisational theater from the audience. Teen boys started throwing firecrackers at one another and deep into the audience on opposite sides of the castillo.
We are talking big firecrackers. M-80s. The type of firecracker you cannot legally possess in The States or Canada -- even though almost every neighborhood has its own contraband source.
Several northern women must have imported their notion of illegality with them. Despite their wagging fingers in the faces of the boys tossing the firecrackers, the fire fight continued through the evening.
I had a great time. So did Darrel. Neither of us can hear very well right now. Two M-80s detonated right beside us. Lobbed, I might say, from "the other side."
It has been a great start for Darrel's visit. I doubt we will find an evening filled with quite as much sound and light.
Every time I think I am getting comfortable in Mexico, something comes along to improve the situation.
As you know, I moved to Mexico to get away from the comforts of Oregon. I wanted to live somewhere that would both challenge and surprise me. Someplace that would yank me into appreciating what life offers.
Well, I am getting that in spades these days. Since returning from Oregon on Wednesday, I have been running from events to meetings to parties. If I had left for Central America today, a lot of projects would have been left hanging fire. You will hear about some of them in the next couple weeks.
This is also my favorite time of year here in Melaque. The patron saint of San Patricio is San Patricio -- the Irish saint we discussed last week. Even though we are theoretically in the midst of Lent, whatever the rules of being compliant during this season must be suspended when celebrating a saint day in a manner that would put hedonism to shame.
I hate to confess that I have missed almost all of the festivities. Other than the parade the other day and a brief walk through the carnival, I have not been staying up late for the nightly fireworks. The castillo was all set up for the night's festivities, but I came home early to get in bed.
After all, Sunday is going to be a long day. Up early to get to the beach for the 8 AM skim board competition. Then to church. Then to the airport to pick up my brother. If I can convince him to stay up late, we will go see the fireworks together.
But there is one piece of news I have not yet told you. I had a blood test on Friday to test how my thyroid was working. My doctor was convinced that I suffered from hypothyroidism and that was affecting my high count of triglycerides. My mother was in that camp, as well.
It turns out they were both wrong. My thyroid is operating as efficiently as my liver. My cholesterol is fine and my blood pressure passes for normal. And after two days without medication, my triglycerides were still high, but lower than when I was taking the medication.
Here is the plan. (Felipe will be partially pleased.) She has placed me on a new medication (ezetimiba/simvastatina) and has pulled me off all carbohydrates for two weeks. She approved of some mild exercise, but nothing strenuous until my blood is thinned out.
So, there you have it. Nothing seems to be terribly wrong other than the pesky persistent triglycerides. I suspect this is going to be a long-term tussle. After all, I have had high triglycerides for almost 40 years now. And no one seems to know why.
They were high when I weighed 145 and exercised almost daily. But that is not what I weigh now. And my exercise program is about as successful as recent American foreign policy.
What I can do is stick to my carbohydrate restriction while Darrel is here (though that will be hard) and get on with the house hunting project.
The next few weeks should be a hoot.
"If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will
eventually come to believe it."
It is a sign certain that I have come to no good end when I start quoting Goebbels for my hook.
But there it is. And despite the fact that it was uttered by a man whose very being embodied evil, it has all the marks of political truth. Or, political lie in this case.
But today's moral lesson has nothing to do with Nazis or politicians. It has to do with real estate agents. A particular type of real estate agent.
As you know, my brother and I are about to embark on a house-hunting trip next week. While gathering some information I ran across a relatively new real estate site* -- specializing in properties in Yucatán and Cancun. I wandered over there because Mérida has long been on my short list of places to live in Mexico.
And there it was. The Big Lie of Mexican Real Estate. "Despite the exaggerated media news of drug wars and crime there [sic] more than one million Canadians and Americans living in Mexico."** The missing verb and breathless bolding are the site's, not mine.
Don't you love that journalistic even-handedness. Dismissing "exaggerated media news" by citing a number that is a stranger to reality. But if you want to marvel at the subtle writing, you have to tip your toque to that little marketing twist of slipping "Canadians" into the sentence -- as if the extra layer would add a patina of credibility.
But we all know the truth. We talked about the expatriate study conducted by the Mexican government in one million americans live in mexico.There were only 262,672 foreigners living in Mexico on 31 October 2009. That's the full total. All foreigners.
Of those, 59,996 were Americans. 10,869 were Canadians. (When I cited the Canadian statistic in January, a local Canadian said: "And I think they all live in Melaque.")
So, that is just over 70,000 Canadians and Americans. It is hardly the one million that a certain class of real estate agents love to toss around.
But why would they assert such a transparent lie? Because they want to put nervous northerners at ease. If one million of My Kind are there, it must be all right. Never mind that it is not true.
And, following the Goebbels play book, they seem to believe that if it is repeated often enough, it will have the appearance of truth. Maybe even to the real estate agents.
It is good enough for me that you know it is not.
* -- No, I am not going to identify the site. For the reasons I describe. The site does not deserve any traffic from my moral high horse. Anyone who tells whoppers like this should not be trusted with anyone's money.
** -- I was going to be satisfied with leaving a comment on the real estate blog. But the comments section was disabled.
During closing arguments, the opposing attorney attempted to rehabilitate his client, who had spent most of the trial making up most of his testimony, by describing him as "a bad historian."
I responded: "Doris Kearns Goodwin* is a bad historian; Mr. Smith is a liar."
For some reason, I thought about that little anecdote yesterday afternoon while talking with my friends Ed and Roxanne. Roxanne had asked me how my health was, and I responded with my usual line of denial -- "just fine; and yours?"
But that was not true. And I told her so. In fact, I had just come from my doctor's office. I had stopped there because I had run out of my triglyceride medication -- the medication that appeared to be doing nothing when I last saw her.
She had a new theory. Maybe my thyroid is off.
I started laughing. My mother has been saying that for years (along with several other things), but my American doctors had refused to test for an imbalance because I did not meet the insurance company protocols for the test. We don't have any of that "objective evidence medicine" nonsense down here south of the border.
So, I am scheduled to have a blood draw this morning to see what my thyroid is doing. The laboratory has drawn so much of my blood lately, I have considered installing a tap in my elbow.
Before I left her office, I asked her to test my blood pressure. I have been feeling a bit dizzy lately, and I wondered if the pressure was low.
It wasn't. It was higher than usual -- and the two numbers were far too close together. I could tell that concerned her.
But I forgot to tell her one of the most important events of this past week. And it didn't even occur to me until I was talking with Roxanne.
On Sunday or Monday night, while I was in bed, my heart started the same type of palpitations I experienced last November. You may recall that was when my doctor diagnosed that I had suffered a mild heart attack.
In November, the palpitations lasted about 15 minutes. This time, they went on for two hours. I almost asked Mom if she would drive me to the hospital. But I didn't. I saw no point in being an alarmist.
And they stopped before I did. The event now seems so remote that I completely forgot to tell my doctor -- the one who is dealing with my circulatory issues. She might have found it to be an interesting piece of evidence.
I will tell her later today when I get the lab results on my thyroid. But it goes to prove something I learned long ago. People are terrible eyewitnesses -- even of their own lives.
Even so, that still does not make me Doris Kearns Goodwin.
* -- The reference to Doris Kearns Goodwin is a cheap shot. I admit it. But, at the time of that trial, she was under fire with charges of plagiarism in two of her books. Her subsequent books are so larded with footnotes that she deserves credit for kicking the copying habit. Or, at least, giving the appearance of kicking the habit.
Thanks to the good graces of Alaska Airlines, I am resting on my bed in Melaque threading together some random thoughts in hope they will hang together -- better than a cheap Walmart suit.
Speaking of Walmart, I was in the Bend store on Tuesday with my brother. We were on some mission or other involving onions and envelopes when I was distracted by a shiny object. A pile of shiny objects to be exact.
I picked up an over-sized tricolor top hat and tried it on. Along with an over-sized tricolor bow tie. It was the St. Patrick's Day display. And I knew I just had to buy the outfit that made me look like a combination between a crazed leprechaun and an unemployed Saint Nick.
After all, San Patricio is days deep into our annual San Patricio Festival. But I didn't buy the hat. And I didn't buy the bow tie. Because they seemed a bit over the top. That is until I encountered the "Parading the Irish Saint" procession yesterday.
One of Mexpatriate's running stories is how the patron saint of Ireland ended up being the patron saint of a little Mexican fishing village on the Pacific coast? I am not certain why I find that so odd. After all, there are plenty of towns named after Italian and Spanish saints.
For some reason, an Irish saint just seems different. Almost like encountering a village in County Cork named Our Lady of Guadalupe West Muskberry.
I should have bought the costume. It appears that I would have fit in with the wearin' of the green in town yesterday.
I often point out that our little town doesn't quite fit in the mold of the more traditional colonial Mexican cities. And this photograph could be Exhibit A.
Maybe that is why I feel so comfortable here. Where eccentricity as worn as comfortably as an old trench coat.
Not too long ago, I promised you some big news.
When I made the promise, I was not certain what that news would be. But here it is. And it is not quite what I anticipated.
Yesterday, we held a family meeting. The Cottons are headed south. Sort of.
Seven years ago, at my sister-in-law's request, I started researching places where our family could live after retiring. Narrowing the list to Mexico was easy. And I eventually decided that either Pátzcuaro or Barra de Navidad would be perfect nesting grounds for the Family Cotton.
Most of you know how this story turns out. I was the only member of our family who decided to retire. And, due to a number of coincidences, I moved neither to Pátzcuaro nor Barra de Navidad, but to dusty little Melaque -- where I have been living on my own for five years.
It appears that may change within the next couple years. My brother is ready to move down. If he had his way, he would be in Mexico tomorrow. But there are still some work projects to complete -- for him and for my sister-in-law.
So, here is what we think is going to happen. In about two years, the two of them will start spending time in Mexico with me -- until they can divest themselves of their property connections in Oregon.
And Mom? She will spend time visiting, as well.
That brings us back to the question of whether or not to buy a house. It would be nice to have our own place when they visit. But I am no longer looking for a place exclusively for the four of us.
I have at least three places in mind to visit when I return to Melaque -- all three in Barra de Navidad. One is pictured at the top of this post. And it appears that the house I have loved since 2007 (ms. barra-in-the-country seeks your vote) is back on the market.
As you read this, I am on my way from the Redmond airport to the Manzanillo airport. It may be a few days before I have any additional news to announce on this front.
But the times, they are a-changin'.
Mexico and I started our love affair in 1971.
I was a second lieutenant assigned to Laredo as a student pilot. To me, Mexico was as alluring as the beautiful young women who hung around the Officers' Club in the hopes of becoming the wife of an Air Force pilot.
Two Texans had befriended me at the base. Tommy Sargent, my roommate from Officer Training School, was from San Antonio. Larry Gana, my neighbor in the BOQ, was from Houston.
They taught me the survival skills of border living. How to eat a whole jalapeño without passing out. How to determine if you are eating grilled goat or grilled dog. And plenty of other helpful hints -- most of which have absolutely no application to my current lifestyle.
And there was the advice about what to take along on a trip to Mexico. Cans of oil. Oil pump. Various car parts. Water. Snacks. I suspect that the mindset had not changed one iota since Pershing's invasion.
One question I often receive from people contemplating a move south is: "What do I need to bring with me?"
I am never quite certain how to respond. When I moved five years ago, I followed the Pershing model. My Escape was stuffed with enough goods to set up house on some deserted island in the middle of the Pacific.
It turned out that I needed almost none of it -- with the exception of good cookware. Several of the boxes have remained unopened since 2009. The reason is simple. Mexico offers just about anything that a middle class expatriate needs.
But that does not keep me from buying goods on my trips north to take home to Mexico. Some of that is just habit. And all of my purchases are admittedly eccentric.
So, what am I taking back to Mexico on Wednesday?
- An Eagle Creek suitcase. I needed to replace my old Eagle Creek for my cruises this summer. I have found nothing in Mexico to match the quality.
- Briefs and socks. I thought I would find a larger variety up north. But Hanes has stopped making my preferred British-style boxers. I could have bought the boxers pictured above at Costco in Puerto Vallarta. The same goes for the socks.
- Jelly bellies. I do not really need them. But I love them. Also available at Costco in Mexico. This jar is almost empty.
- Brach's spiced jelly bird eggs. Another weakness. And only available in The States at Easter. I have never seen them in Mexico.
- Ziplock freezer bags. The regular variety are everywhere in Mexico. But not the freezer variety.
- DVDs. Pirated copies, of course, are available in my local tiaguis, but I choose not to deal with the narcos.
- Books. A Paz paperback and a Central America tour book. There are no bookstores anywhere near my house.
- Listerine. Everywhere in Mexico. But not my preferred variety -- soft mint.
- Crest sensitive toothpaste. It shows up at Walmart now and then.
- Chocolate pudding mix. I have never seen it in a Mexican store.
- Red curry paste. I have never looked for it in Mexico. This is an experiment.
Four years ago, the mix would have been quite different -- for the same reason I did not need to purchase most of these items. Mexico offers them -- and more.
I no longer smuggle in Boar's Head pepperoni because I have found an adequate substitute. The same goes for Carr's water crackers.
Of course, the list very well may change if I buy that house that is tempting me. Sheets and towels will undoubtedly fill my suitcases when I become a homeowner.
Until then, I will end up carting goods through Mexican customs that I could just as easily purchase in Manzanillo or Guadalajara.
Old habits are hard to break.
