I have said it before, and I will undoubtedly say it again -- I am really glad I bought this place. Tonight's moon from the courtyard perfectly complements the lines that the architect so carefully added to this place.
This is my gift to you this evening. It is too beautiful to keep just to myself.
I have a craving.
That is an interesting sentence. Is it possible to ever just stop there?
Is it ever possible to simply have an abstract craving? Or does that sentence need to identify an actual craving for a very specific thing -- to make any sense?
I can't think of a single instance where I have left a dangling craving at the end of a sentence. Cravings are for something.
This little rumination started ricocheting around my head as I left one of my favorite restaurants last night. My fettuccine Alfredo was almost perfect, but I could not quite clean my plate.
So, I was walking toward my car with a small container of pasta left-overs when the craving hit. I am not much for desserts. But, when I have them, they have to be on a rather limited list. No chocolate. No cream cheese. No coffee flavoring. And not too sweet. The survivors constitute a small group.
Topping the list is ice cream. But not just any ice cream. It has to be Baskin-Robbins cherries jubilee -- or nothing. And that was what I was craving.
Our little town is filled with ice cream stores. Almost none of them have anything approaching cherries jubilee. The closest is a black cherry flavor -- with chunks of black cherry -- sold by Thrifty ice cream stores.
There are two Thrifty stores within cone-tossing distance from my house. The problem is, as good as the Thrifty black cherry ice cream is, it is not Baskin-Robbins cherries jubilee.
The nice thing about cravings is that unless the specific item is at hand, substitutions will not suffice. I was going to pat myself on the back for having the courage of my convictions to drive past the Thrifty store without even slowing down. (Well, I slowed down to see if the store was open. It was. I will give myself a half point for not looking for a parking space when I saw the store was open.)
And I will take away that half-point because my real justification for not stopping was that I will be in Oregon this coming Sunday -- and I can stop by the Baskin-Robbins store at the Bend Fred Meyer whenever my brother gives me the keys to the Shiftless Escape.
Some itches just need to be scratched. This one will be licked.
Yesterday was devoted to one task -- working on another draft of my Thursday lecture.
I have one hour to present my research. The last draft was 16 pages of outline notes. You can see the problem. The corpses of five lectures are buried in my prose loam. So, I have been taking the machete to it.
A wiser man would simply acknowledge that Aristotle was correct. Everything that exists is the same as itself; and is different from everything else. If I have five lectures; they are five lectures, and will never be one, no matter how hard I stomp the garbage into the dust bin.
That revelation came to me this afternoon after six hours of tamping down the trash. I had set up camp at Papa Gallo's with a great view of the beach. I knew the restaurant would not be too busy because of the rain that descended on us with a vengeance on Sunday evening. It was still hanging about in thunderstorm mode.
I thought I would be undisturbed. But nature has a way of intervening.
The light reflecting off of the clouds was too enticing for my inner Ansel Adams. Between the flocks of birds commuting from bait ball to bait ball, and the thunder adding long ominous rolls in the background, I had to get away from the computer to enjoy what was going on.
I particularly liked this view. Our little bay is now filled with boats seeking refuge from our unseasonably wet weather. It feels as if the weather system has squatted over us. But that isn't true.
In the photograph, you can see another wave of rain that was heading our way -- and managed to clear the beach of Mexican tourists celebrating the intricate subtleties between Articles 26 and 27 of their Constitution. Or maybe they were just having a good time.
Because I wasn't going to get any more editing done while enjoying the beach view, I decided to sequester myself in my monastic cell -- otherwise known as my bedroom. A place, as Henry Higgins would say, with "an atmosphere as restful as an undiscovered tomb."
And so it was for about three hours. I then heard the distinctive tones of the town band and the mullah-like prayer over a cheap loudspeaker that indicated another religious procession was passing by.
From yesterday's essay, you know what was up. It was the Candlemas procession -- trying to pry people from their homes to attend mass. It wasn't working.
And it wasn't working very well for the procession, either. The usual faux Indian dance troupe led off -- but their ranks (and enthusiasm) were rain-thinned.
This shot gives you an idea just how small this particular procession was. You can see the dancers in front, followed by the usual pickup "float," the town folk who have joined in, and the band looking just as bedraggled as the dancers.
The "float" was an interesting piece of propaganda. Candlemas celebrates the day Joseph and Mary first took baby Jesus to the temple in Jerusalem. As practicing Jews, they were following the Torah's requirement to offer up the first born to God and to purify the mother after childbirth.
Whoever designed the float decided it was a good opportunity to remind mothers to baptize their babies.
As I stood there shooting, I noticed something very odd. The complete absence of the bone-jarring sky rockets (cohetes). Nary a one was shot off while the procession was within three blocks of my house. I assumed that it might be too rainy.
Wrong. I no more closed my gate when I heard two. WHAM! WHAM! As if ISIS had decided that shelling Barra de Navidad would be good sport.
And then there were none. Maybe my rain theory was correct, after all.
But it was a nice break. And a break that gave me time to cook a small dinner -- which I ate while watching Annie Hall. One more time.
If I start channeling Alvy Singer during my lecture on Thursday, well -- it might be a good thing.
There were cars everywhere when I drove to the restaurant on Saturday night for the Cuba extravaganza.
And I had no idea why. Until I gave it some thought. I should have immediately figured it out. It is Constitution Day.
Well, not really. Constitution Day is 5 February -- one of Mexico's eight statutory public holidays. But Mexico has followed the benighted practice of its northern neighbor by celebrating holidays, that fall on a given day, not on that day, but rather on the nearest Monday.
Thus the Mexicans were taking advantage of a three-day weekend. But two other events also occurred over the weekend.
There was a wedding in town. And not just any wedding. People with status and lots of money were tying the knot.
How could I tell? All you needed to do was start toting up the number of luxury vehicles parked along the streets -- and the young Mexican couples walking around who appeared to have just arrived from their photo session of Upscale Living.
For the more devout, today is Candlemas -- the day when some Mexicans maintain the tradition of taking down their nativity scenes. Officially ending the Christmas season.
Some Mexicans. But not here. Our nativity scenes were stowed in the bodegas after the three kings stopped by to divvy up their booty. We are a town of commerce, not tradition.
I conducted one of my very unscientific poll by talking with 9 random Mexicans. My first question was why was there so much activity in town? (The restaurant where I was conducting the poll was filled with Mexican tourists.)
All 9 mentioned it had something to do with the constitution -- none mentioned Candlemas. Most assumed it involved the Mexican constitution, but a couple were uncertain of what a constitution might be. Only one identified it as the constitution of 1917. (A similar question about the Fourth of July in The States would undoubtedly engender similar answers.)
Our expatriate community was out and about, as well. But not for Candlemas, a wedding, or Constitution Day. They were looking for the best place to gather to see Seattle and New England beat the tar out of each other. It was Super Bowl Sunday.
My friends Lou and Wynn invited me over to watch the game with two friends visiting from Canada, and with Ben and Alexa of La Taza Negra (and their two young children: Ayden and Willow.) You know the four of them from A Mama's Logbook.
I suspect I have seen most Super Bowls in the homes of friends -- most often overseas. There is something exotic watching the quintessential American sport in surroundings where the game simply hasn't taken root.
Last night's game had the advantage of being an interesting and well-played game -- though I suspect the crows will be feeding on the carcass of the Seahawks' final play for some time. Monday morning quarterbacking is a multi-billion dollar industry, not to mention being guaranteed by the American Constitution. Somewhere in the First Amendment, I think.
Paul Allen and Russell Wilson may not be having a great time this week. But I certainly had a great time watching the game and sharing an incredible prime rib dinner. A brief power outage simply added to the festive nature of the evening.
You might be wondering why I would be enjoying a prime rib dinner during a game I professed to be enjoying. Let me explain how broadcast television works down here.
Barra de Navidad and Melaque are at the very edge of the satellite beaming area. Any small interference can simply stop transmission. The wind. Birds. Hillary Clinton shifting her position on a major issue.
But, usually, it is rain. And rain we had last night. Just as half time started, the transmission faded. And continued to fade until well into the fourth quarter.
By then, part of our group was in ecstasy. We had left the Seahawks tied with the Patriots when the screen went black. They were ahead when the transmission resumed.
We witnessed the Patriots' touchdown that put New England in the lead, and then the Seahawks' relentless march to the 1 yard line. Only to have Russell Wilson's pass intercepted by Malcolm Butler with 20 seconds to go. The game appeared to be over. There was to be no joy in the Mudville of the Pacific Northwest.
And, for us, it was. Over, that is.
The screen went black. Again. We missed what happened in those last 20 seconds of the game. Including Bruce Irvin's ejection for behavior that makes some of us wonder if football has turned into something other than a sport.
While we were bidding adios to Ben and his family, we noticed something unusual across the street. The rain was still doing its impression of Miami in August. The electrical wires run very close to a series of palm trees at that point. Perhaps too close.
In several places, contact with the wires was creating either sparks or small fires. It was no wonder that we had briefly lost power. Just another wonder of Mexico.
For me, the day held no wedding. Candlemas means nothing to me. And I doubt I gave any thought to the Mexican Constitution -- other than to wonder just how often I have violated Article 33. None today. I hope.
But it was a super day with super friends.
Just another reason I live in Mexico.
What does it take for the beach crowd to slip on high heels and top it off with a Chanel little black dress?
Apparently, Cuba night. And Cuba night it was at the French eatery Ambar. Or "Cubambar" for the night -- as the owners Veronique and Ricardo would have it. (Yeah, I know. Cuba. Ricardo. Even I am not going there.)
For a high value peso note, we were treated to a Cuban dinner (I have yet to eat a Cuban meal I did not like), to Cuban music (which I like almost as much), and to a Cuban craft (other than the type of craft that locks up political prisoners).
Speaking of Cuban prisoners, I am always a bit cautious about attending cultural events where the star attraction is from a totalitarian country. I have had plenty of experiences where I thought I was supporting social justice in Palestine or political dissidents in Iran only to find out that I had sponsored guns for Palestine and training gear for Republican Guards. You just never know.
But I decided simply to enjoy the night for what it was. If there was sub-text, it could play out in someone else's essay.
I was correct about the food. Even though most Cuban dishes have an interesting combination of ingredients, they tend to be rather simple and tasty. That was certainly true of last night's main chicken course -- combined with olives and raisins. A form of fricassé de pollo, if I am guessing correctly.
The chicken was served with that Cuban staple -- rise and brown beans -- along with fried plantains. The type of meal you were once able to eat in farmhouses around Cuba.
The music was even better. The Cuban import was known as Pedrito y de "Cubason." Like most bands that travel from Cuba, their sound system was even worse than our local lighting. I stood next to the stage several times to test how good the voices and instruments were before they became muddled by the sound system.
And good they were -- with the exception of the rather annoying habit of assigning saxophone and trumpet solos to the electronic piano. For good reason. There were no wind instruments.
But there was no missing the provenance of most of the tunes. The eccentric descending chords and contrapuntal rhythms branded it as Cuban. The song selections were primarily Cuban and Latin standards with a few new songs thrown in for variety.
Not that it mattered. The crowd was ready to enjoy itself. I was sitting in an area where French and Spanish were the lingua franca.
When the music started, Mexican shoulders immediately moved in syncopation with the beat until full bodies were dancing sitting down. That did not last for long.
Mexican women were the first to hit the dance floor. They were soon joined by other language groups -- unfortunately proving several racial stereotypes about dancing.
But that didn't matter, either. After all this isn't Arthur Murray. The fact that Latin hips move with more fluidity than northern hips was irrelevant. Girls -- and guys -- just wanted to have fun.
And fun we had. Barra de Navidad is blessed with some very good musicians. But these guys knew their stuff. In the same way that USO bands touring through Greece in the early 1970s knew their stuff.
Even the cloud of cigarette smoke that soon started rising added to the atmosphere. I could have been at the Tropicana celebrating New Year's Eve in 1958 -- or just visiting the showroom of the Havana National Hotel in 2015. Pretty much the same dictatorship and music.
Speaking of smoke, that was the craft that was on display last night.
A Cuban sat at a table pretending to make cigars -- and not pretending to sell them. I am not certain if anyone indulged in that particular vice. We may have been too busy indulging in our individual choices to be suckered into another.
Like most Latin concerts, this one started late, and it was just shifting into second gear when I had to leave. After all, I need to get this story to you while it is fresh. Plus, I have to get to church on time to plug my lecture on Thursday. (It is now in draft form number seven. You can see a hint of it in the left corner of my dinner photograph.)
As I write, we are getting a light rain shower. Hardly the thunderstorm that was predicted to test how water tight the upper deck of the house now is.
Maybe I could get the pretty Mexican women in their high heels to come over to test out the worthiness of the new tiles. The band is probably still playing.
Laurie over at a gumbo pot would regale us with her Friday Fragments during her Honduras days.
Yesterday I didn't experience Friday fragments as much as a fragmented Friday. Let me explain. (Yes. I know. It is just an expression. You already knew I was going to explain. Otherwise, what would be the point of the essay?)
The day ended up being something I never intended. My sole plan for the day was to finish my research for my lecture on Thursday -- and to then pull everything into a first draft.
Research is not what it once was. Not too many years ago, I would have opened up several books to the pages I needed, stacked all of my written notes to the side, and then set to work on my legal tablet with my fountain pen. I still remember those days wistfully.
Instead, I grabbed my Kindle full of books, my laptop with my internet connection, and a stack of written research notes (for auld lang syne's sake), and set everything on the long table under the umbrella next to the swimming pool.
My only concern was that the construction work was still underway. On Thursday, the shriek of the tile cutter, the sound of concrete chipping, and the boom box playing Kenny G above the cacophony would have made writing impossible.
But the tile work was done. I was left alone with young Álvaro (the kid who cannot be more than 20, but has two children), who was finishing up the construction. He is usually quite garrulous. But not yesterday. He saw me working and put in his ear buds. I barely knew he was there.
You will not be surprised to hear that I was interrupted. Not by the telephone. Not by the internet. It was voices from above. And not the kind that tells you to strap on an explosive vest before visiting the military day care system.
When I stepped from underneath the umbrella, I could see two maintenance guys (I hope) climbing what I call the Eiffel Tower next to my house. They were calling to Álvaro. And I knew why.
It is a guy thing. Whenever you do anything that could easily result in death, you want as many witnesses as possible to see your folly.
When I pulled out my camera, they did their best Flying Wallendas wire tricks. I was duly impressed.
But being impressed was not going to get me any closer to finishing a lecture on the mestizo myth. So one on I surged -- until Álvaro told me he was done with his portion of the construction work.
His boss, Hugo, is supposed to stop by to ensure everything is satisfactory -- and to pick up the remaining equipment. As well as return the key to my front door.
The work looks fine to me -- with one exception. The drains on the terrazza are surrounded by tile. With the exception of one, which is surrounded by grout. I need to ask Hugo why that is. The original drain was tiled in.
I already know the answer. It is surrounded by grout because it is grouted in.
I will get a better look at the finished product after Dora works her wonder on the floors later today.
At least, that project will be completed for my March house guests. And we may get a chance to see if the leaks are fixed. Soon.
The weatherman predicts thunderstorms for tomorrow. Thunderstorms in January? That is weird.
After ten hours of work today, I had completed the first draft of my lecture. It will need a couple days of editing. But the bones are all there -- with the exception of the funny bones.
I finished just in time to drive over to Villa Obregon for an art show in my old neighborhood. Ed's studio was my primary stop. But I also stopped next door to look at some photography and craft offerings.
I spent about an hour talking with Ed's daughter and looking around to see if I could find anything that would add a bit of artistic life to my three guest bedrooms.
And then I was off to a local restaurant that will go unnamed. The owners had invited me to test corn dogs as a potential special for Super Bowl Sunday.
Asking Mexican cooks to produce a product when they have no idea how the result should look or taste is always a crap shoot. Given that limitation, the two corn dogs I tasted were fine.
The batter tasted great and the hot dog inside was not one of those weedy Mexican wieners of unknown provenance. But the batter was more like tempura than a corn dog.
Unfortunately, we suffered a bit of hot dog interruptus. The restaurant was very busy. So, we called an end to the experiment. The Super Bowl will have to go on without corn dogs.
In the end, the day certainly was fragmented, and full. Almost as full as I was when I headed to bed with dreams of lectures dancing in my head.
Note - If anyone cares, this is a partial bibliography of the sources I used in preparing the first draft for next Thursday's lecture.
- Jorge
Castañeda; Mañana Forever?: Mexico and the Mexicans
- T.R. Fehrenbach; Fire and Blood: A History of
Mexico
- S.C. Gwynne; Empire of the
Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most
Powerful Indian Tribe in American History
- Richard Grabman; Gods, Gachupines, and Gringos
- Enrique
Krauze; Mexico: Biography of Power -- A History of Modern Mexico (1810-1996)
- Charles C. Mann; 1491: New
Revelations of the Americas before Columbus
- Charles C. Mann; 1493: Uncovering
the New World Columbus Discovered
- Robert W. Merry; A Country of Vast Designs:
James K. Polk, the Mexican War, and the Conquest of the American Continent
- Henry
Bamford Parkes; A History of Mexico
- Octavio
Paz; The Labyrinth of Solitude: The Other Mexico
- Alan Riding; Distant
Neighbors: A Portrait of the Mexicans
It looks like church. It isn't. Or, not exactly
For the past three* years, our church (now known as Costalegre Community Church) has sponsored a series of Cultural Awareness Classes. The first year, we discussed Sarah A. Lanier's Foreign to Familiar: Understanding Hot and Cold Climate Cultures.
It was a great place to start for those of us who were interested in learning a bit more about the cultural divides between American-Canadian and Mexican cultures. (Come to think of it, a course on the difference between American and Canadian cultures might be a good idea.)
The last two years, we have recruited speakers from the local communities to talk about topics of interest for the people who attend the classes. My doctor spoke last year about her work with the Indian school.
This year, we have had speakers on the hot-cold cultural divide, a discussion from a Spanish teacher concerning the cultural significance of certain words, and a local doctor who discussed the history of local Indian tribes.
Last night, we heard from writer Linda Bello-Ruiz (also a member of our congregation) about the very complex issue of Mexican immigration to the United States. Linda worked as a workers compensation return-to-work consultant in California for 26 years. Through her work, she brought a lot of expertise to the discussion.
She also has some very strong views about immigration. As do I -- even though our views are not exactly concurrent.
But she did raise some very interesting issues. I was a bit surprised that the discussion did not get more heated. When Linda asked how many of the attendees were Canadian, I understood why. Over 80% of the attendees were from a country that did not have a dog in the immigration fight.
I spent most of yesterday away from the construction noise of concrete chippers, tile cutters, and Kenny G music cranked up loud enough to be heard over the rest of the cacophony. I have a good idea what I want to cover next week.
Oh, that's right! I forgot to tell you. Next Thursday I take a turn behind the lectern. (And there's a great essay title. You might see it in a few days.)
Our pastor allowed each speaker to pick a topic. Mine is: "Who is a Mexican?: The Mestizo Myth." The title, as you might expect, is far more provocative than the derivative content.
Last year, I tried to weave the same thread trough my one-hour summation of the history of Mexico (it's showtime, folks; cinderella is home from the ball). This year, I am reversing the process. The question will not be a mere thread; it will be the theme. And the saunter through Mexico's history will be aimed at how Mexico has seen itself as a nation (not as a state) since the Revolution -- and how that definition still excludes some members of Mexican society.
That sounds a lot more controversial than it is. But it will give me another opportunity to tart up history as an entertaining vehicle.
All I need now is some entertaining bits to liven up the rather drab soup that is now simmering on the back burner.
* -- At least, I think it is three years. It could be four. I tend to get some of these facts a bit muddled with my comings and goings.
