Yesterday was one of those twixt days.
In this case, twixt traveling and living my Melaque routine.
It would not be accurate to say that the day caught me by surprise. I have known for a couple of months that I would be leaving on Wednesday for Mexico City and my cruise. But I have not given much thought to it.
When I looked in the refrigerator, I knew it was about time to leave. I didn't have much in there. Even though some things will need to be dumped. Like the large jar of Miracle Whip that will turn into an Alexander Fleming experiment while I am gone. And the pickle relish that already has.
The only big item in the refrigerator was some left over grilled chicken that I have been using for sandwiches. But I was rather tired of the same fare. A quick reconnoiter around the kitchen counters revealed an overly-ripe tomato, one clove of garlic, and half of a red onion.
That was good enough for me. Out came the small sauté pan and a bit of olive oil. In went the chopped onion, garlic, tomato, and chicken. And, voilà, with a bit of marjoram stirred in, I had a perfectly serviceable lunch.
It would have been better on pasta. But I have been getting enough carbohydrates with my recent sandwich binge. I didn't need any more with pasta. And what would have been a good pasta sauce turned out to be fine on its own.
Fortified, I started looking at getting packed for Wednesday morning's flight. My usual routine is to stack my clothes (and other items I think I will need) on the guest room bed. I usually then grab half of the clothes and put them back in the closet -- knowing full well that I will never wear all of them. No matter how long the trip is.
This trip is a bit different. I need to pack my city clothes for Mexico City in addition to packing the various costumes I will need on the cruise. So, I worked backwards. I included all of the things need to be allowed in polite company. My blazer, wool slacks, and a couple of dress shirts.
The casual stuff? It got the Simon the Zealot treatment. Half went back into the closet. The nice thing about an extended cruise is that there are laundry and dry cleaning services on board.
After paring down, one suit case would have been sufficient -- and I could have saved the $760 (Mx) additional baggage charge on AeroMexico. That is what I would have done, but for one inconvenient truth.
In Mexico City, I will be picking up my white tie costume after my final fitting. And its bulk could not have been crammed into the remaining space in a single suit case. Considering the cost of the outfit, it will probably want its own first class seat to Barcelona.
So, the house is closed up, and I am on my way to vulture the museum culture of Mexico City and to learn if there is anything yet to be learned in declining Europe.
I suspect I will have tales to tell during the next few weeks.
How many times have I written: "I didn't come to Mexico for the weather"?
How ever many times it is, it is no less true due to repetition. The same thing goes for the food. That is not why I am here.
And you know the next question -- because some of you have asked it of me. Then, why did you move to Mexico?
The broad answer is the same reason young men moved from the east coast of The States to the Wild West and Alaska. For adventure.
It took 400 years for my English and Scottish ancestors to make their way from Massachusetts and Virginia through Canada and Missouri to Oregon. When I moved to Mexico, I was simply exercising my genes to hunt out a life of fewer comforts than the one I had in Salem.
And I have found it here in Melaque. Despite the heat, humidity, and blood-sucking insects, I stick around here primarily because of the wildlife. It is hard to have adventure without a nice dose of wildness.
Of course, at the top of that list are the crocodiles who allow me to share the beauty of their laguna each day. Sometimes, that sharing can be up close and scaly.
I think most of you already know my garden gate opens onto the andador -- the walkway around a portion of the laguna. It usually offers a cordon sanitaire between the crocodiles and me. But, not always.
A couple of nights ago, I ventured onto the andador in search of leaf-cutter ants. When I walked out the gate, I turned left and started walking along the edge that often serves as a superhighway for the ants.
Before I reached the edge, I glanced up, and saw what you are now seeing at the top of this post. A medium-sized crocodile.
I will admit my stomach twisted. Even though the business end of the crocodile was pointed away from me, I have seen how quickly crocodiles can flip and move.
But she didn't move. Humans are the only natural enemy of crocodiles in these parts. Usually, whenever a crocodile sees a person, all you see is a quick splash in the water. Not this time.
As entranced as I was watching her, I needed a photograph. So, I dashed back in the house to set up my camera. When I returned she was still there.
Looking at bulging sides, I knew why. She was filled with eggs and was laying them in holes she had dug in the embankment. In about 75 days (early July), we should be entertained with a new generation of baby crocodiles. My camera is on high alert.
Crocodiles are not everyone's cup of tea. But their continued presence in my life is probably the primary reason I live where I do.
The rest of you can praise the culinary allure of tacos. I like my adventure to be a bit more life-threatening.
Happy Cinco de Mayo to all of you!
I need to say that here because the Spanglish-speaking crowd has pretty much abandoned the quickly-heating sands of our beaches. And because most Mexicans do not celebrate the day.
There is an urban myth that most Americans believe that Cinco de Mayo is the Mexican equivalent of the Fourth of July -- a celebration of an American nation's independence from a European colonial overlord. I have never seen a poll that would verify the myth. But I cannot gainsay it. The American grasp of the history of other countries is -- well, how to put it delicately -- slightly wanting.
Even the Mexicans I have talked with during the past few days have had a slippery grasp of what the day is all about. My favorite was the young man who thought it had "something to do with the Americans taking away the northern half of Mexico -- or beer."
So, here is my version of why some people will be celebrating the 5th of May.
From the day it became independent in 1821, the nation's leaders were split into two factions -- conservatives (who were supporters of the Catholic church, Spanish culture, and a centralized government) and liberals (who were anti-Church, looked to the European Enlightenment for culture, and supported federalism).
For almost forty years, the two factions fought each other politically and often physically. The civil war we know as The Reform War (a war caused in part by the confiscation of Church property by the liberal government) ended in 1860 with Benito Juárez (a liberal) as president -- and the conservatives plotting revenge. They found an ally in a very odd place. In France, the home of the Enlightenment so beloved by liberals.
Forty years of battle, including the loss of half its territory a decade before, had left Mexico in dire financial straits. To keep its accounts afloat, successive governments had borrowed money from Europe and the United States. And now it could not re-pay those debts.Juárez did what any debtor would do under the circumstances. To pay the daily expenses of his administration, he suspended interest payments on foreign debts for two years.
One of the wiliest (and silliest) characters to ever sit on the French throne was Napoleon III. He dreamed of restoring the glory of the Bonaparte name -- both in Europe and in Latin America. He envisioned a French empire in middle America that would increase France's glory while simultaneously preventing the United States from becoming a world power.
The place to start was Mexico. Mexican conservatives and Church authorities had persuaded him that the Mexican people longed for a return to Crown and Church. They just needed a leader bold enough to show the way.
Napoleon III found a perfect emperor for his new colony of Mexico in Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian, the younger brother of the Austrian emperor. And he found the perfect political mechanism in the Tripartite Alliance.
Mexico owed large debts to Britain, Spain, and France -- and their citizens. To collect those debts, the three nations joined in the Alliance and hatched a plan that they would seize the Mexican port of Veracruz, apply the custom duties of the port to re-pay their debts, and then negotiate with the Mexican government for further payments.
It all worked as planned until the British and Spanish saw that France's agenda was something they could not support. They took their troops and went home in April 1862.
That left the French commander, the Comte de Lorencez, on his own with his French troops. Even though there were Mexicans prepared to join the French cause, Lorencez rejected the offer believing that Mexican forces were inherently inferior to his French troops. He also believed the romantic nonsense that the Mexican people were ready to welcome the return of the Crown and Church to Mexican soil.
So, off he marched with no more than 6,000 troops to capture Puebla on his way to Mexico City.
Puebla was guarded by two forts on separate hills -- Loreto and Guadalupe. The Mexican general in charge of the defenses, Ignacio Zaragoza (whose scholarly face adorns the 500 peso note, at least, the notes that have escaped the frog face caricature of Diego Rivera) who exhorted his troops: "They have come to take their country from you."
Lorencez's arrogance knew no bounds. In the same show of hubris that would send French officers into battle in World War One armed only with a walking stick, he sent his troops into battle with bayonets. And no artillery support. The day was 5 May 1862.
Three times he marched French flesh against the Mexican trenches and fortresses. Each time he failed -- thanks, in large part to a brave brigadier general by the name of Porfirio Diaz, who disobeyed orders, and repelled the French.
The French finally retreated when Tlaloc, the Aztec god of rain, decided to send a downpour. The French, some of the best troops in Europe, retreated wet and defeated to their base camp.
It was a victory by default. But a victory, nonetheless. And it gave Mexican patriots hope that they could actually beat back Napoleon III's attempt to build an empire. For a time.
That time was one year. Napoleon III sent a full corps of his best troops to Mexico along with a new general. On 17 May 1863, the French returned to Puebla. The Second Battle of Puebla had a different outcome.
The French would take Mexico City and Maximilian I would sit on the Mexican throne as the country's second post-Independence emperor. At least, until 1867. After Napoleon III withdrew his troops to deal with more pressing Prussian matters, Maximilian and his Mexican generals were defeated and executed before a Mexican firing squad.
But on Cinco de Mayo, we are not celebrating merely the bravery of the Mexican forces that managed to survive defeat. We are celebrating the spirit that every nation celebrates when invaders are defeated.
Even though Cinco de Mayo is not a federal holiday, and most of the country will not pause to celebrate what the day means, we can all stop for one moment and wish Mexico well.
¡Viva México!
The Mexican beach is hot. And humid.
I knew that before I moved here. But that is like knowing that relationships can be difficult. What I didn't know were the details.
I have written about some of them in past posts. The rust on anything metallic. Short half-lives for electronics. Shredded cloth on any clothes made of silk.
You know those time-lapse photographs of rotting fruit? Well, that is how I often feel. That my flesh is rotting off of my bones.
But I am still surprised when something new pops up. Such as, that photograph at the top of this post.
The bed in my guest room seems to have a life of its own. Three people in my family have slept in that room -- all with the same results. Slip into a bed that is flush with the wall, and wake up with the mattress askew and the bed pulled away from the wall.
Earthquakes? Not likely. What is likely is the heat and humidity. When I sleep in comfortable rooms (say about 50 degrees Fahrenheit), I wake up in about the same position where I fell asleep.
Here in the tropics, I turn into Steve the Thrasher. If I do not move, I feel as if I am about to melt into a Wicked Witch of the West pool.
The hotter it gets, the more I thrash. The more I thrash, the more the mattress and bed move. (The bed in my bedroom is set on one of those concrete bedsteads that look like an empty Transylvania crypt. It doesn't move. Maybe I should sleep inside it. It might be cooler.)
But it does'nt stop at moving beds. There is also the mystery of the Sticky Socks and Underwear.
I have a rule on selfies. Nothing below the neck. Today, is a bit different. I wanted you to witness (at a distance) what happens each morning when I put on my underwear.
They get stuck on my foot. Not once, but several times. The same goes for socks. It often takes minutes for me to put on a pair.
There is no doubt in my mind what the culprit is. The same thing that makes chopped vegetables stick to my French chef knife as if they were super-glued.
Humidity. I don't know where the border is on relative humidity. But once it crosses over (I suspect 80% may be the target), getting dressed turns into a chore. I think I now know why sandals and shorts are the beach uniform.
And whenever I get on one of these topics, I always weigh them against the pleasures I find down here. The bugs. The heat. The humidity. They simply do not outweigh the pleasure of sitting in my garden with a good book.
And enjoying each day without giving much thought to the fact that with each sunset, I am marching inevitably to my demise. But it is going to be one fun walk.
"I'm passing around a petition to get Medicare for us in Mexico."
It was my expatriate pal Doug. "Just sign it. I don't want to talk about it."
Well, I didn't sign it, and we did talk about it. One aspect of Mexico's medical system is the lack of bureaucracy and paper -- the Geminis of big organizations.
I don't need an appointment to see my doctor. With very few exceptions, I can get my prescription simply by bringing in the empty box. And I don't need to calculate what my co-pay is going to be on any given visit. I pay the full amount -- often less than what the co-pay would be in The States.
Doug's request reminded me of an experience earlier in the week.
I don't have health insurance in Mexico. That is not entirely true. I have access to my military medical insurance -- as long as I pay the Medicare B premium. So, each month, Uncle Obama keeps $149 out of what he would otherwise pay me for reaching the age of 65 above ground.
You are probably wondering why I pay the Medicare premium if I do not receive Medicare benefits in Mexico. I often ask myself that question. But, if I do not pay it, the military insurance will not reimburse me for my out-of-pocket expenses -- about 75%. I call it my catastrophic insurance plan, even though the Obamacare officials do not smile kindly on that form of insurance.
I thought it was a good deal. $150 a month just in case some of the crocodiles in my DNA pool rear their ugly heads. And with my prescriptions now costing me just over $200 a month, I thought I would avail myself of a reimbursement.
Remember what I said about Mexico being very light on its bureaucracy when it comes to medicine? Well, I know the federal government considers that type of informality to be just short of original sin. So, I requested a prescriptions from my doctor listing the drug, the diagnosis requiring the drug, and the dates of service. I then attached six months of pharmacy receipts itemizing the drug, the purchase price, and the date.
Last Tuesday I mailed the package off to the government unit in Wisconsin that handles these matters -- feeling rather smug that a check for several hundred dollars would be heading my way.
Somehow, I neglected to read the instructions. Here is the very helpful information that my government has relayed to me in getting drug reimbursements.
"Prescription claims require the name of the patient; the name, strength, date filled, days supply, quantity dispensed, and price of each drug; NDC for each drug if available; the prescription number of each drug; the name and address of the pharmacy; and the name and address of the prescribing physician. Billing statements showing only total charges, or canceled checks, or cash register and similar type receipts are not acceptable as itemized statements, unless the receipt provides detailed information required above."
If I had been requested to put together a list of requirements that have never existed in one place at the same time in Mexico, I would have been hard pressed to come up with a list better than that one. "Cash register receipts are not acceptable as itemized statements." Even if it is the only type of receipt given to customers in Mexico?
My dreams of receiving any check went into the same bucket where I store the delusion that tax rate increases will improve the economy.
You can picture the conversation I had with Doug. If we are unlucky enough to have Medicare inflicted on the Mexican medical system, you can just imagine the books of similar regulations that will plague doctors and pharmacists. What was once a simple system where consumers were the primary concern, bureaucrats will rule.
Doug walked away muttering with a blank space where he envisioned my signature. I just may start a petition of my own for people who simply want to be left alone.
Even if it is simply my name on the petition. But, I guess that is how it should be.
The English must be getting desperate for new territory.
And that understandable. If Scotland votes to go its own way on 18 September, the not-so-United Kingdom will lose almost one-third of its area.
And who knows where that will leave the Union flag? The one that incorporates the crosses of three national saints: Patrick (Ireland), Andrew (Scotland), and George (England).
Sounds like the start of joke, doesn't it? An Irishman, a Scot, and an Englishman sat down to design a flag.
The result, of course, is one of the most recognizable of national banners. Except for the people who insist on calling it the English flag. British, please.
Even our favorite British blogger boffin, Gary Denness, stuck his pen into an ancillary tussle. Whether good St. George should have his own national holiday. (Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint Willy) With tongue deeply embedded, Gary suggests that Shakespeare would be a better pick for an English patron saint. Me? I would hold out for the Venerable Bede.
I suspect the Scots will come to their senses and see that they have a far greater -- and better --place in the world as a united nation, rather than going it alone. My preference, of course, would be for a United Republic. But, all of the current William-worship, will probably pull the Windsor chestnuts out of the fire.
So, what was I talking about? Oh, yes. The English flag. The real one. The white one with the red cross. The one we usually see being waved by English football hooligans in France just before they trounce some poor Frenchman.
Last November I told you that I had been searching for a way to climb up to an outcropping of rocks at the west end of Melaque's beach. (steve -- sometimes in mexico) Someone climbs up there now and then, and strings up a celebratory memento -- pennants or flags. But I have not figured out where to scale the hill.
When Darrel was here, we noticed something new. A larger flag. And a quite familiar one. Yup. The cross of Saint George. At the top of this post.
It sounded as good as any clue offered by Agatha Christie. So, I rounded up the usual English suspects in our small village. To no avail. They had no idea who dun it. And, as a result, had no idea how to find the rocks.
The flag is still there. But none the better for wear.
The perched turkey vulture adds an appropriate soupçon of foreboding.
Having felt taunted for long enough, I headed up the hill. I laughed when I first read that Theodore Roosevelt scaled Mont Blanc one morning on his honeymoon wearing tweeds and sturdy boots.
My getup was not much better. I was outfitted in my go-to-town outfit. Tommy Bahama shirt. Dockers khakis. Street shoes. Not the usual climbing garb in this weather.
I scrambled up a trail that looked as if it was cut by rainy season streams and a family of coatimundis. Surprisingly, I made it up the hill far enough to realize that the jungle still obscured my goal. I racked it up to a successful reconnaissance in force.
The best aspect of this little encounter is that my goal is still out there. Or, up there. It is something else to do before I end up shuffling my little stack of greeting cards in a rest home.
And if there are any Englishmen hanging around up there, the Mexicans may need to dig up Porfirio Diaz to repel the invaders -- as he did at Puebla.
But that is a story for -- oh, say, three days from now.
I wish you knew Follies.
The Sondheim musical centers around two couples with troubled marriages who return to a reunion of performers from a series of follies produced, as the impresario puts it, "between the great wars." That summary makes the play sound as if it might be a nostalgia wallow. It isn't.
Like Blue Jasmine, its theme is far more universal. How we bring anguish to those around us when we build our own realities and then expect everyone around us -- especially, those we should love most -- to conform to the world we have created in our heads.
Some might call it narcissistic. I call it nuts.
At the start of the show, the producer invites us to once again watch the entrance of the Weismann Folly Girls. "So, take one last look. They won't be coming down these stairs again."
I thought about that line at dinner last night. One of my favorite restaurants in La Manzanillo -- Café de Flores -- has brought down the curtain on its culinary run. Retirement beckoned far more than another night of culinary arts.
I was under the impression I was also going to lose one of the summer's few dining treats. The owner's daughter, Alex, has been offering a limited menu of specialties three nights a week during the summer. It is perhaps the highlight of the summer season in these parts.
But I misunderstood. It is true that the restaurant is closed and the building is for sale. However, Alex will continue to serve up her special treats at the same site until she and a baker friend team up in a new spot.
There are rumors of chicken pot pie in a pocket crust. Rumors like that will help me work through the beach's oppressive heat and humidity. At least, while I am here.
Last night I went over for the first of her offerings. Of course, it was good. It always is. And I will go next week. Alex offers creative dishes that are better than anything I have found, so far, in Mexico. Even in San Miguel de Allende.
I am glad she will be open this summer. And, I hope, many summers to come.
When former Weismann Girl Sally Durant Plummer walks out onto the bare stage of Follies, she tells us: "It's going to be a lovely party. I'm so glad I came."
And if you take advantage of some of Alex's offerings this summer, you will say the same thing.
