spinning the wheel with karma miranda

Karma runs a fixed game.

Whenever I start mumbling about being bored, as I did in going commando with the japanese about our local food, fate plops a plate of revenge on my lunch table -- a dish that is not necessarily best served cold. Take last Monday.

On each Monday evening, you will usually find me at my favorite table in Magnolia's with my friends Ed and Roxane. It is one of our local rituals -- to climb the hills to La Manzanilla's enchanting beach to dine at one of our favorite restaurants.

During the summer, Alex, the owner-cook, prepares a special menu for the three days she is open each week. There is always a theme. Mediterranean. Asian. All-American. But always something new.

This week, she did something completely different. She turned the kitchen over to Mari, the proprietor of the pop-up restaurant Sol y Mar.

Mari is usually our waiter. Last week, she told us one of her offerings was going to be a Puerto Rican sandwich with a garlic sauce, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and sliced beef. The difference was fried plantains would be substituted for the bread.

I was skeptical. I first tried fried plantains in Cuba. They were underwhelming. My subsequent encounters had not changed my initial impression. I was loth to give them another try.

Until I remembered my two rules of dining out: 1) order something that is too difficult to cook at home, or 2) try something new and different. So, #2 it would be.

And I am glad I ordered the sandwich. It may be the first time I have discovered umami -- that taste our mouth devotes to the savory -- in a sandwich.Tied with a scoop of potato salad and a root beer float for dessert, my sandwich was a practically perfect meal.
I almost passed up that experience for an equally-tempting pink mole and chicken. But life is made of choices.

The nice thing about Magnolia's is that the portions are large enough I almost always take half of the serving home for my lunch the next day. That is my Tuesday lunch at the top of the post.

Morals are playing a big part in my essays these days. But not in this one. I have learned that Karma can easily play the role of Loki the trickster.

So, with apologies to Mr. Stephen Sondheim, I will close with: Morals tomorrow; comida tonight.
 

the dog that did bark

Few things in life are more valuable than the recommendation of a good book from a friend.

Not long after Barco nuzzled his way into my household, my blogger pal Jennifer Rose told me to get a copy of Alexandra Horowitz's Inside a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know -- and to then read it. She promised great insight into the ways of dogs.

I bought the book earlier this year, but it has been sitting in my Kindle waiting for me to weary of my read-about-all-the-dead-presidents project. (I will explain that modified title in a later essay.) A friend in the United States has mailed me a hard copy of a Harding biography -- the next entry on my list. While waiting for it to arrive, I decided it was time to learn a bit more about my rather fickle dog pal.

Barco usually joins me in the pool when I start one of my reading jags. Not because he is infatuated with my presence, but because I usually eat my dinner while I read. He is a food-centered dog.

On Saturday, I shared the two different worlds Barco and I occupy (a tale of two cynics). Mine is sight and sound. His is nasal.

Not surprisingly, that is where Horowitz begins her tale of dog life. She had just told me about the mechanism dogs use to clear their nasal passages of old smells to make way for new -- with a slight sneeze -- when Barco did something I had never heard him do before. He was taking in short bursts of air. Almost as if he had suddenly turned asthmatic.

I was a bit concerned -- until I noticed he was very intent in his sniffing. He was not only sniffing; he was analyzing.

He got out of the pool and started toward the garage door grumbling, as he often does, like an old man muttering about socialism. He then stopped and ran up to the second level where he started barking. When he ran downstairs, I knew he wanted me to come witness some new danger to our sovereign existence.

I almost expected to see hordes of Canadians crawling over the wall. But I could see nothing. Nor could I smell whatever it was that initially set him off.

But he insisted, by barking at the top of the wall, that danger lurked. And then I saw it.

We humans love bathing in hubris that our eyesight trumps the puny efforts of dogs. But tied with his nose, Barco's eyes put mine to shame.

Sure enough, there were intruders. They are right there in the photograph that leads this piece. But, like me, you might need a closer look.

Yup. Two fellows were climbing the tower next to my house -- I presume to do some maintenance work.

In Barco's world, of course, there are no presumptions. People fall into two categories. Friends (people within our walls) and dangerous intruders (anyone on the other side of the wall). And those guys were definitely not inside our walls.

Popular culture runs in cycles. When I was young, westerns were the way to fill the Hollywood bank. No one is much interested in seeing one these days. Sherlock Holmes is far more fortunate -- having waxed and waned in popularity since Conan Doyle released him out of his imagination.

Barco could just as easily have told me, when I finally saw what had caused him to cry "Hey, Rube!" this afternoon: "You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear."

Before long, he will be requesting a deerstalker and a briar pipe. It must be the bloodhound in him.

a tale of two cynics

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Poor Charles Dickens. When he wrote that line, it was fresh and original. Even better, it perfectly (and brilliantly) summed up the tale he was about to tell concerning the glory -- and the horror -- of the French Revolution. Writers enjoy a good hook.

And now? It is like any other cliché. Stripped of its essence by familiarity. Gérard de Nerval's familiar bon mot captures the process: "The first man who compared a woman to a rose was a poet; the second, an imbecile."

Barco and I breathed some life into Dickens's line last evening during our sunset walk. We are both aesthetes -- each in our own way. The problem is we define beauty quite differently.

That should come as no surprise. Dogs find beauty with their noses. Humans find beauty through sight and hearing.

That is where our Dickensian struggle started last night. We headed out on our walk just as a thunderstorm was rolling in over the mountains. I did not need to look over the walls of the house to see a storm was arriving. As the front passed over the house, the change in air pressure along with an accompanying wind and falling temperature obviated the need for a protocol officer announcing its arrival.

The northern sky was almost purple -- forming a dramatic backdrop for the lightning that ran the full length of the horizon. It was a marked contrast with the various clouds that had gathered to the west promising what would be one of our memorable beach sunsets.

But Barco was having none of that. He was far more interested in who had dropped a birria bone or who had urinated on a roadside clump of grass. For him, the world was filled with the wonder of discovery through his nasal passages.

I, of course, forgot to bring my camera on this walk. When I decided to cut back on writing essays, I also lost the habit of carrying my camera. So, I had to rely on the camera in my telephone -- and live with the adage "good enough is good enough."

But, even that camera was a challenge to operate. Because one hand was tethered to Barco, I looked like a tight rope walker when I would stop to snap a shot. The problem? Barco wanted to keep walking.

That is ironic. Before Barco came into my life, I was walking four miles each morning in just under an hour. I still walk an hour with him. But we are lucky to complete four blocks -- let alone four miles -- in that time.

We just do not share the same aesthetic sensibilities.

If that sounds like a complaint, it isn't. I am thoroughly enjoying getting to know this dog. He is actually becoming a pal. And, at some point, like Sydney Carton, one (or both of us) might be able to say: "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

But not quite yet. My metaphoric appointment with Madames Guillotine and Defarge can wait. Maybe they can take my seat in Emily Dickinson's carriage.

I would be missing a great opportunity if I dd not close this little ramble with Billie Collins's take on the aging of dogs.

A Dog on his Master

As young as I look,
I am growing older faster than he,
seven to one
is the ratio they tend to say.
Whatever the number,
I will pass him one day
and take the lead
the way I do on our walks in the woods.
And if this ever manages
to cross his mind,
it would be the sweetest
shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.

 

this is my country

So, there I was writing about how to become a Mexican citizen, and my calendar decided to do an impression of Poe's raven. There is something about the Fourth of July that stokes the fire under the nostalgia cauldron.

There was a time when the Fourth of July was a very special holiday for Americans. Family picnic. Fireworks. Pageants. Sometimes, all of them in one grand package that could only happen in The States.

In the mid-1960s, Alpenrose Dairy outside of Portland, decided to produce an extravaganza of American history. Alpenrose was one of those businesses with a civic conscious -- the type of business we all think of when we hear the term "American small business."

The company sponsored and provided facilities for Little League, a midget racing track, a velodrome, an opera house, a Christmas village, and dozens of other activities that made the farm exactly what the family owners intended -- a hub for the local community.

Not to mention that it was darn good business. Everyone had a soft spot in their heart for Alpenrose. I still remember the trucks delivering milk in the morning while I was cycling through my neighborhood on my paper route. Alpenrose was part of my Norman Rockwell childhood.

But I stopped being an observer of Alpenrose when I was invited to be part of its newly-formed Fourth of July pageant -- "This is My Country." The production was everything Cecil B. DeMille could have desired. The full panoply of American history. Pilgrims. Presidents. Cowboys. Indians. And lots of wagons, horses, and assorted animals. All played out on a rodeo ground with 10,000 spectators.

Most of the cast was recruited from the various Portland-area Youth for Christ clubs. It was a great opportunity for most of us to meet people we would not have met otherwise. I still have a very close friend who I met there.

What I remember best is the complete lack of irony in the production. It was what it was. A full-blown love song of patriotism for the nation we loved. We were perfectly aware that the country was not perfect. But we loved it for what it was -- and what it aspired to be.

And that is what I intend to do today. I am going to reach back 50 years to find the Norman Rockwell kid I once was -- to simply bask in the greatness of the country I will always love. And celebrate a full day without sardonic sarcasm or irony.

No matter how many citizenships I stick on my suit case before I die, this is my country.

Happy birthday, America. It has been great knowing you.

becoming a mexican citizen -- part 582

When we last left Roxane and Ed's excellent adventure (proof of the pudding), the three of us were driving back to the beach from Colima. Both of them had passed their Spanish fluency test at the University of Colima with flying colors.

With his certificate in hand, Ed had returned to the naturalization office for what we estimated to be his ninth visit during the past few years -- in high hopes that he had everything he needed to forward his citizenship application to Mexico City for processing. It turned out not everything was to the satisfaction of the processing clerk.

She told Ed he needed to go to the immigration office in Manzanillo to clear up a concern she had about one of his Mexican residency cards. Even though he felt a bit let down, he and Roxane went to the immigration office the next day and witnessed an incredibly efficient retrieval of the card. (Remember all of those documents you gave to immigration over the years to renew visas? The copies I always imagined were trashed the moment I left the office? They are stored in thick folders.)

So, on Friday, we headed back up to Colima in the hope that it would be our last trip. If you are laughing at our naivete, you are jumping ahead in the story. But you would be correct.

The clerk informed Ed he now needed to return to the Manzanillo immigration office to get another document. What was frustrating was that the clerk knew about that missing piece when we talked with her on Wednesday, but she did not mention it. So, on Monday, Ed will need to go back to the same immigration office where he was on Thursday to retrieve more information that he could have retrieved earlier had he received a timely request.

I do not ascribe motives to people. Making windows into people's souls is a fool's mission. But there is nothing to do other than to comply as long as Ed wants to become a citizen. He soldiers on.

I thought it might be helpful to set out the ten requirements for applying for Mexican citizenship based on the government's web site. If you want to see the original, you can find it at: http://sre.gob.mx/carta-de-naturalizacion-por-residencia. The edited, English version is mine. As are the comments, they are mine and not legal advice. They are merely some musings I have picked up in the process.

1. The applicant must be an adult.
I qualify -- at least, by years. There is no requirement of acting like an adult.

2. The applicant must complete an application (with the very bureaucratic name of DNN-3) completed either on a typewriter or by hand in black ink. Printed. Legibly. Bring along the original and a copy.
That step sounds easier than it is. I have never been very accomplished at filling out government forms -- even though I have been doing it for over five decades now. But this is a good exercise to show Spanish comprehension (and, for Americans, the ability to convert real measurements into metric). It is also the opportunity the applicant is given to explain exactly why he wants to be a Mexican citizen.

As for the copies, bring three. For some reason, three seems to be a magic number at the Colima office.

3. The applicant must be able to prove he has been a permanent resident in Mexico for five years prior to filing for naturalization. The original documents and two copies must be presented.
There is bad information going around about what constitutes proof of the five years of permanent residency. The best proof will soon be the permanent resident card itself. But they have been in effect for only the past three years. The other two years require proof from the prior visa system.

Prior to the permanent resident card, visas were divided into FM2 and FM3 categories. Only FM2 time applies to meet the rest of the five-year requirement. Time sent in Mexico on an FM3 is the same as if the applicant had lived here on a tourist card making artisan jewelry. In other words -- it is about as helpful as having only one copy of anything.

And, as for those two copies, bring three.

4. A certified birth certificate is required. But not just certified, it must also have an apostille attached. Then both of them must be translated by a certified translator. The original and two copies must be presented.
Almost everyone has a certified birth certificate. What most people do not have is an apostille that certifies the certified document is what it purports to be. In my case, I will need the Oregon Secretary of State to create an apostille for my birth certificate. (This is one step that causes a lot of people to start asking: "Why?" Don't bother. Just do it.)

Again, two copies means three copies.

5. The application must copy each page of his passport. The original passport and two copies must be presented.
This one is easy (and it ties into the next requirement). Black and white copies are acceptable. I am not going to take a chance. It will be color for me.

Oh, yeah, be certain to copy the cover.

Again, two copies means three copies.

6. The applicant must present a letter and two copies, under oath, clearly indicating the number of exits out of and entries into Mexico for the two years prior to filing the application.
In theory, the entries and exits should be the same as those in the passport. The purpose of the requirement is to establish that the applicant has not been outside of Mexico in excess of the number of days allowed in Article 21 of the Nationality Act.

I am not certain what "under oath" means here. In Oregon, it would mean a notarization is required. I need to find out more.

Yup. 2=3.

7. The applicant must provide proof of no criminal record at the federal and state level. Two photocopies.
This is the trickiest of the requirements. The federal certificate is issued in Mexico City. For we beach dwellers, the Jalisco certificate is issued in El Grullo, a mountain town hours away.

The tricky part is not the travel. Each of the certificates is good for only 90 days. As you can tell from Ed's adventure, the certificates could easily expire while trying to satisfy the clerk concerning "missing" documents.

My suggestion is to obtain the certificates as the very last items before you submit your application.

The 2? You already know.

8. The applicant must exhibit an ability to speak Spanish, to know Mexican history, and provide proof of integration in the Mexican culture.
Anyone over the age of 60 is not required to take the history test. That is too bad. On the sample tests, I usually score high. Of course, Mexican history is one of my passions.

And I have already told you about the language test (proof of the pudding). Simply knowing that a basic understanding of conversation and written skills in Spanish is sufficient to get a certificate has helped ease my mind about the process.

Three copies of the certificate from the University of Colima would be a safe bet.

As for the "cultural integration" requirement, I suspect that element may be part of the "why I want to be a Mexican citizen" answer in the application.

9. No application would be worth its salt without the requirement of two identical recent photographs, passport size (4.5 x 3.5 cms). White background. Frontal. No glasses. Bareheaded.
These, of course, will appear in your shiny new Mexican passport once the naturalization process is completed. I like to think of this requirement as the ray of hope.

10. The applicant must provided proof of payment for the application fees. Original only.
And what those fees are, I do not know. Nor do I care. Once I get to the tenth step, I will be joyous. And exhausted.

As for that "original only," don't believe it. Make three copies.

So, there you are. Ten little steps whose simple language masks what could easily be a modern equivalent of the Labors of Hercules. Or, at least, Sisyphus-lite.

In twenty months, it will be what I am doing. I hope Ed and Roxane will be driving me up to Colima for my starring role. Come to think of it, that is just about the time Roxane may apply.

We will see you on the other side. I hope.

recovering the tune

I am off to celebrate Canada Day with some friends -- from Canada, of course. I am their American pet.

In 1986, my friends, Ken and Patti Latsch, and I attended the Expo in Vancouver together. My strongest memory of the whole event was the Canadian Pavilion with its Goose and Beaver Show. (I kid you not. Who says Canadians do not have a naughty sense of humor -- or is that humour? I forget.)

One of the productions (one that worked, that is; most of the films simply broke down faster than a Soviet watch) was a movie celebrating Canada's people and scenery. I was entranced with the music. In fact, I left the theater humming the tune -- and it came back to me periodically over the years.

Well, this is the day (back in 1867) when the province of Canada, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia joined together to form the Dominion of Canada -- part of the British Empire. Even though its constitution remained under the authority of the Queen, the day is often celebrated as Canada's birthday. Compared to the American birth, it was a quiet affair.

Thirty years after attending Expo, I have found the missing song. On YouTube, of course. I wish I hadn't. It is as trite and mundane as a Disney production. But that may just be the compliment nostalgia pays to reality.

I will let you write your own review.

By the way, happy birthday, Canadians.

proof of the pudding

Once upon a time, an American (or any other nationality, as far as I know) living in Mexico could become a Mexican citizen by submitting two cereal box tops and a shiny quarter -- or something like that.

Two of my favorite writers in Michoacán took advantage of the offer and now enjoy all of the benefits of calling themselves "Mexican." But that was then, and this is now. Becoming a member of the club is a bit more difficult.

Yesterday, I learned a lot more about the process. I drove my friends Ed (the artist whose paintings adorn my anonymous house) and Roxane to Colima to witness Ed finish another step in his naturalization process. For a couple of years, he has been gathering up the necessary documentation that must accompany his application -- only to have time-limited documents expire because something new was added to the list.

We were in Colima to check off one of those new requirements: number 8 on the list -- "Evidence that the applicant can speak Spanish." In the past that has meant the naturalization clerk had a conversation with the applicant, and would then subjectively determine whether the applicant was adequately conversant in Spanish to show that he was "integrated into the national culture."

The requirement makes perfect sense. If you want to be part of a nation, you should, at a minimum, be able to converse with your fellow citizens.

In the last year or so, the meaning of the requirement has changed. The naturalization clerk does not make the call. Instead, the applicant must submit a certification indicating the level of the speaker's proficiency in Spanish.

The test here is administered by the University of Colima foreign language school. After a bit of sleuthing, Ed called the school and set an appointment.

Because this is Mexico, nothing is quite as simple as that last sentence. No one in the office knew the school's address. Someone was eventually able to provide him with a street and number. The campus with that address appears at the top of this essay. But it is not where we needed to be.

A very helpful security guard was directed us to the correct campus -- a 15-minute drive away. If you are going to take the language test for naturalization around here, this is the sign you are looking for.

I have heard so many tales about this test that I wanted to see it in action -- in the hope of verifying that the people who have reassuringly told me "it is no big deal" are correct. Well, I have my answer.

The test administrator allowed Roxane and me to sit in the examination room for Ed's test. The first portion of the test is oral -- an impromptu extended conversation designed to elicit answers showing a grasp of different verb tenses, appropriate vocabulary, and abstract themes.

The second part of the test is on the computer. I did not see any of the questions, but Ed described it it as quite difficult. There were the usual tricky choices between the preterite and the past imperfect -- along with subtle variations of the subjunctive. That test took about an hour.

I should add that the computerized test continues as long as the person taking it continues to answer question correctly. After all, it is designed to evaluate expertise.

While Ed took the test, the woman administering it talked with Roxane to determine her level of expertise. Roxane did so well in the conversation, she was not required to take the computer test.

Roxane, in white, converses with the test administrator while Ed taps away in the background on a keyboard.

For the payment of $150 (Mx) -- $8.11 (US) -- each, both of them were certified as having a rather high knowledge of Spanish. But we all knew that before they took the test. It was simply another item to check off of the naturalization list.

We then drove to the naturalization office -- in the expectation that Ed would be able to submit his application. It was not to be. The first hurdle was discovering the office had moved from the central plaza to a building about 20 minutes north in the suburbs.

That was not a problem. Off we went to the new office. (Mind you, Ed had talked with the clerk several times recently. Not once did she mention the office had moved.)

I will tell you more about Ed's adventure with the clerk in a later essay. It should help explain how 10 checklist steps with clear instructions can turn into a Kafkaesque slog. Suffice it to say, Ed still has a couple of tasks to accomplish -- and the walls of bureaucracy remain unbreached.

But I did get to meet the clerk who, in a mere twenty months, will be processing my application for naturalization. That must be worth something.

After seeing the Spanish test evaluation, I have decided to take a break from my language classes. I want to start spending a bit more time in the local community listening and talking. There is no doubt I will need to hit the books before my Spanish abilities are evaluated by the University of Colima.

For now, though, I want to start putting to use what I do know.