She comes by it honestly. Darrel and Christy lived on a small ranch on the outskirts of Bend for over thirty years. Even though they were within walking distance of town, their most dangerous adversary was fire. Forest fires.
On several of my visits, we would be running errands in Bend when Christy would look up and see smoke on the horizon in the general direction of their place. Whatever we were doing, we would head back to the house just in case we needed to defend the property from a flaming invasion.
The risk was real. Groves of ponderosa pine surrounded the house and outbuildings. Just over the ridge in back of their place was a pine forest. If a fire jumped the ridge, we would have either gone into fire-break mode -- or become fleeing refugees.
During Christy's visits to my area of Mexico, she was initially unnerved by the number of brush fires. Some in the wild. Others in town.
Darrel reassured her that brush fires around Barra tend to die out before they burn very far. She was not certain of that explanation. Especially when she saw the char marks on a number of concrete walls.
And she was right to be wary. A brush fire near the laguna in Villa Obregon recently got away and threatened some local businesses before our local fire brigade showed up with their water truck to bring it back under control.
When Gary and Joyce took me to the Manzanillo airport on Saturday, we watched a brush fire burn the full slope of two steep hills near the highway. I still do not know if that was an intentional burn.
Today, while I was out on a walk in Bend, I noticed a column of smoke rising just beyond the ridge of Darrel and Christy's former ranch. When I got back to the house, I told them about the fire, and off we headed in their SUV to chase a story.
It turned out it was a controlled burn by the Forest Service. To burn off anything combustible before the fire season begins -- and before an uncontrolled burn took advantage of the kindling.
There was a small army of firefighters controlling the burn where it backed up to homes. Even knowing there was a good deal of control on the fire, it was like watching a lion tamer work with big cats.
After all, fire is every bit as dangerous -- and as unpredictable -- as a wild animal. The control is an illusion. At any moment, the fire could have turned into the very thing the burners were attempting to avoid. Paul Ryan must feel the same way these days.
As for me, it was a good reminder how fragile the circumstances of our lives are. I do not live with the danger of fire in my part of Mexico. But I do have scorpions, earthquakes, hurricanes, and even one very live volcano.
But that is what makes getting out of bed each day worthwhile.
Fortunately, I was flying my favorite carrier. Alaska. So, no heads were gashed on armrests and no children were threatened with jail.
But, you deserve an explanation here. And you are going to get it.
On Saturday afternoon, my friends Gary and Joyce dropped me off at the Manzanillo airport. Jorge, who was last a trainee when I encountered him for the first time in February, professionally checked me on my three flight segments: Manzanillo to Los Angeles, Los Angeles to Seattle, and Seattle to Redmond, where I would arrive just after midnight. A full day of flying.
Through no fault of Alaska, the flight to Los Angeles was not the best flying experience I have ever had. And, in context, the slight inconveniences caused by fellow passengers was small potatoes.
I was not in the best of moods to face one of the worst parts of flying internationally through Los Angeles -- the American immigration and customs process. In years past, it has taken me up to two hours to get from one flight to the next. No more. Immigration has installed banks of kiosks that would make a Los Vegas casino owner proud. It is as simple as processing a boarding pass. Scan your passport. Answer a few questions about whether you are going to overthrow the American government or cause a plague. The machine then snaps an incredibly unflattering photograph, and prints a receipt.
After I collected my luggage, I rolled up to customs, handed over my receipt, and I was on my way.
Or, so I thought. I was the second person in line to board the Seattle flight. I gave the clerk my boarding pass. When she scanned it, her computer screen lit up as if North Korea had finally lit The Big One. She scanned it again. Same result.
She called for her trainer. Same result. A third representative showed up. I completely stalled the boarding process while the three conferred on what to do.
At this point, the trainer asked me to step aside while two of the trio started tapping away at the computer. This was the only point where Alaska's justifiably high reputation for customer service failed. I had no idea what was happening. It turns out neither did the Alaska employees.
Within minutes, one of them returned to tell me they were really confused. Someone had tampered with my reservation. My seat on the Seattle flight had been sold because the computer indicated I had not flown from Manzanillo. She assured me that even though the flight was full, she would find me a seat.
When she next returned, I knew she did not have good news. That was why I was confused when she told me I would be flying, but I would have to fly in one of the bulkhead seats -- staring for hours at a blank wall.
Then she dropped the other shoe. "Or you could spend the night in Los Angeles, and we can get you on a flight to Seattle and Redmond tomorrow morning." I knew then there was more to the story.
It turned out my flight from Seattle to Redmond had been cancelled due to "crew rest." In other words, there was no one to fly the plane. If I managed to get to Seattle that night, that would be the end of my flying for the day.
My choice then was to stay in Los Angeles or Seattle. Like any good citizen of the Pacific Northwest, I chose to fly -- even if it was in a bulkhead seat.
And this is where fortune shined on me. About 60 people failed to make their connections with the Seattle flight. That left the first class cabin only half full. Because I was patient, I ended up sitting wherever I wanted.
I give great credit to the Alaska employees who helped me. They kept me informed and made clear it was their computer entries that had almost kept me from flying out of Los Angeles. Alaska has even sent me a very kind email with a sizable chunk of remuneration for my trouble.
After my experience with AeroMexico, Alaska has just gone up several notches in my esteem. Both relatively and absolutely.
Best of all, I am now in Bend at Darrel and Christy's house. Tonight, our mother joined us for ham supper.
What better ending could there be to such a story?
Some of my best essay ideas come from my readers. Such as, today’s topic.
A reader passed along a recent article (Expats must safeguard visa status when leaving Mexico) from the English-language Guadalajara Reporter. He thought it would interest me. It did. It combines two of my favorite topics -- visas and Mexican immigration procedures. Rather than paraphrase the article, I will let it speak for itself. I could not possibly recreate the Kafkaesque eeriness of the original.
Foreign citizens who have jumped through all the bureaucratic hoops required to obtain residency visas in Mexico may run the risk of losing that legal status whenever they venture out for travel beyond the country's borders.
Officials from the Instituto Nacional de Migration (INM) issued a warning to that effect during a conference directed to a large crowd of expats on April 11 at the Lake Chapala Shrine Club.
All it takes is a seemingly minor clerical error committed when going through immigration stations at border crossings and international airports to end up getting automatically switched from Residente Temporal (RT) or Residente Permanente (RP) status to a visitor permit good for a maximum of 180 days.
According to INM's Chapala office chief Guillermina Cortés, at least a dozen lakeside area immigrants have lost their residency visas due to paperwork glitches when returning to Mexico from trips abroad. Essentially the problem stems from errors in processing the Forma Migratoria Multiple (FMM), a standard form that must be submitted individually by all foreigners entering and exiting Mexico.
For tourists traveling beyond the border zone, the two-part FMM serves as their official visitor permit. The larger top portion is stamped and collected by immigration officers upon entry to the country, with the lower segment handed back upon departure.
In contrast, as an RT or RP visa holder, any time you fly out of Mexico you will have to fill out an FMM and give it to the airline carrier to be attached to your boarding pass. The shorter lower segment of the form will be collected at the INM desk prior to entering the boarding area.
The trickier part is how the FMM is handled when reentering Mexico. Airline personnel usually hand out the forms on board the incoming flight. Residentes fill in the information boxes in the top portion of the form, including noting Mexico as country of residence (box #7), the number shown on the back of the INM green card (box #8), checking otro/other for purpose of trip (box #9).
Cortés also recommends adding the hand-written notation Residente Permanente or Residente Temporal across the top of the form and detaching the lower portion of form that is meant to be kept only by persons coming into the country as visitors.
Once off the plane, pay close attention as you go through the immigration filter. First of all show the official your INM resident green card and passport and verbally state "soy residente." Then hand over only the top portion of the FMM.
Cooperate if the official on duty insists that you fill out both segments of the form, but make sure that the gray areas designated for Uso Oficial are filled out properly before leaving the immigration desk. If there is a check mark in the section labeled Estancia Maxima 180 days you will be registered as a visitor in the INM data base, automatically losing your resident status. In that case, stand your ground to see that the mistake is corrected and the section below, titled "Unicamente Para Efectos Estadisticos," is checked off in the box labeled Tarjeta Permanente Temporal. Resident immigrants should follow the same procedures when leaving and entering the country by land or sea.
Guillermina Cortés also pointed out that RP and PT holders are not subject to paying any processing fees to airline companies or immigration checkpoints since they have already paid the requisite taxes for obtaining their visas.
I do not fly out of the Guadalajara airport. I assume that is the site of this very odd bureaucratic behavior.
But I do regularly fly out of the Manzanillo and Mexico City airports. The procedure there appears to preclude unwary expatriates with resident visas from being led astray into the ways of a tourist card.
This is what happens at the Manzanillo airport (where I am sitting right now). The first stop for resident card holders is the Mexican immigration office. The card and supporting passport are handed over to an immigration official who disappears behind closed doors -- with an air of mystery that would please Oz.
He will soon reappear with a completed immigration form. The exit portion is always filled out. Often, the official is generous enough to complete the other half of the form for the return flight.
The airline check-in representative keeps the exit portion, and the flyer is ready to head through security.
The procedure in Mexico City is a bit different. The immigration form is completed by the card holder after passing through security. Immigration approves the exit portion of the form, which is then collected by the airline when boarding the aircraft.
In both examples, though, the card holder retains the other half of the form -- the form that is then presented to immigration, along with the resident card and passport, when returning to Mexico.
I am not certain why the officials at the Guadalajara airport would use a different procedure -- a procedure that appears to be a recipe for visa hell. I cannot imagine how a residential visa could be transformed into a visitors’ visa due to the failure of the card holder to present the correct form.
But, it is there in the newspaper. It happened to "at least a dozen lakeside area immigrants." And that is what seems to have occasioned the “pour-water-on-the-burning-hair” meeting. I am just curious. Those of you with residential visas, have you had anything like this happen to you? Or been an eyewitness to it happening to someone else?
Of course, having written this while wearing my smug mask, I may discover just how easily it can happen when I return to Mexico in three weeks.
It is my nature to tempt fate -- with its fickle finger.
You know how they go. Some question that has never even been in your zip code is flashed in front of you, and you are expected to react with the curiosity of a gross of dead cats.
"Twelve Things You Will Not Find In Queen Elizabeth's Handbag." "The Seven Hollywood Stars Who Have Slept With American Presidents." And today's offering: "The World's Most Powerful Passport."
And there is almost always a catch. The contents of the Queen's handbag have been conjured up by a clairvoyant in Hoboken. The stars are Barbra Streisand and her cronies who sleep with a photograph of Barack Obama under their pillows.
I thought the "most powerful passport" would have a similar failing. The ranking being calculated by owners of Albanian restaurants in Dublin. But I was wrong.
It is a legitimate ranking system with objective criteria. A group known as Passport Index keeps a running tally of passports according to their power. And how is that "power" calculated? With one simple criterion: how many countries can the passport holder visit without obtaining a visa?
Now, I can probably come up with a different ranking system, but this one is simple and fair. And there is no nonsense about the Queen refusing to handle any currency that displays her face.
I was heading to Colombia when I first saw the summary article in Travel and Leisure magazine. I thought I might write about it while traveling to and from the Land of Bolivar. It turned out I had plenty of other topics for essays.
And it is fortunate I waited. In just a few short weeks, the rankings of the 25 most powerful passports have changed. Some rather dramatically. But, I suspect that is the tenor of our times. Nations generally are tightening their border controls.
But, I have rambled on long enough. I am certain you want to know where your passport has been ranked on the power spectrum.
But, before I tell you, you need to know what I found to be a rather dispiriting fact. There is not a big difference between the 25 countries. They all fit into six categories -- and only 5 visas separate the #1 group from the #6 group.
With that, here they are; the 25 most powerful passports in the world are issued by the following countries.
1. Germany, Singapore Germany held the title a few weeks ago with 177 visa-free countries. The total for both Germany and Singapore is now 159. 2. Sweden (158)
3. Denmark, Finland, France, Italy, Norway, South Korea, Spain, United Kingdom, United States (157) 4. Austria, Belgium, Japan, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Portugal, Switzerland (156) 5. Canada, Ireland, Malaysia (155) 6. Australia, Greece, New Zealand (154)
Just in case you are interested, of the last four countries I visited, I needed a visa for one (Australia), but not for the other three (New Zealand, Mexico, and Colombia). Mexico ranks #23 on the list (along with the Bahamas and Vatican City). Colombia is #41 (in the same group as the Russian Federation, Montenegro, and the Marshall Islands).
And who is the Mediterranean Avenue of the passport power game? No big surprise here -- Afghanistan at #93. Afghans can visit only 24 countries visa-free.
So, there you have it. No Miss Congeniality, and a lot of crown-sharing amongst the winners. Don't you ever wonder if Barbra Streisand keeps a photograph of the queen in her handbag?
When I was in Colombia, we saw flowers I have never seen before.
One of the most common was a group known as heliconia. We have our share of them here in Mexico. Not surprisingly. They are native to the American tropics. You can see them almost anywhere in the Americas where the climate is hot and steamy.
Heliconia range all the way from the classy-understated variety in my courtyard (at the top of the essay) to this rather garish chain letter eerily (and accurately) called crab claw.
The crab claw was on display at an animal preserve in Pereia, Colombia. And it was not out of place with the tropical birds that called it home. (We will learn a little bit more about the preserve when I get my thoughts and photographs organized.) I did learn two things about heliconia. One I already knew. The other that was completely new to me.
I already knew heliconia are not birds of paradise -- the bird-like flowers familiar to residents of Florida and California. Even though the leaves and the flowers of both families are similar.
Birds of paradise belong to an entirely different family -- strelitzia. But, in general usage, I suspect it makes little difference. They look similar. The leaves and the flowers on both heliconia led me astray in another way. I cannot remember who told me heliconia were related to bananas. It made sense to me, though. The leaves look like banana leaves, and the flowers have a striking resemblance to the flowers of the banana plant.
But, that is not true. Heliconia are not related to bananas. At least, that is what a botanist outside of Armenia told us. When I told her Wikipedia says they are related, she just laughed. Using the same laugh I use when people cite Wikipedia as their source.
Taking into account Wikipedia's rather sorry track record as a perpetrator of urban myths (such as, San Patricio being named after Irish deserters from the American Army during the Mexican-American War), I am going to believe the botanist.
Of course, "related" is a rather broad term. I am related to Dick Cheney and Barak Obama -- but not in any meaningful way. And most people would say the truncated nature simply makes them non-relatives.
So, there is one of the things I learned in Colombia. I have about five large essays I need to complete and share with you. The best I can say is: they are on the way -- simmering on the back burner like any good stew.
I may even share a flower or two. When I get around to serving them up.
Last night. over plates of yakisoba and other Japanese delicacies, Roxane, Ed, and I shared stories of piano lessons.
Their tales were similar to others I have heard. Roxane's had the additional patina of nun villains.
My recollections were a bit different. I came to the piano as a third musical instrument. I had violin lessons in the fourth grade that did not go well, and saxophone lessons starting in the sixth grade that were marginally better.
I must have been in the eighth grade or a freshman in high school when I asked my mother for piano lessons. That is the way I remember it. But it is possible that a young pastor we knew needed the extra income, and inquired if I was interested.
Whichever version is true, Richard (I think that was his name) regularly came to our house to teach me. He was close enough in age to me that I thought he was cool. And he was a good teacher.
Early on, he told me every young pianist wants to learn how to play by ear -- and to play what is popular. He told me that was good. That was one way to learn. But I also needed to do the hard work of learning the basics of technique and music theory.
As an illustration, he asked me to play a church hymn from memory. I did. It was almost exclusively melody.
He then asked me to pull out a hymnal, and then showed me how the left hand could add texture to the music with chords creating harmony and counter-melody, as could the right hand by adding additional notes to complement the obligato. It was a perfect illustration for someone who had played two instruments that were generally stuck with one musical line.
In one lesson, he had given me incentive to learn more about music in order to reach my goal of playing what I wanted to play. At his recommendation, I enrolled in the Sherwood School of Music correspondence course.
The theory was a bit tedious. But, he kept my eye on the ultimate prize. My parents awarded my progress by selling our ancient upright piano in favor of a spiffy Yamaha spinet.
I eventually drifted away from the piano -- as I did from the violin and saxophone. But I retained my interest in music. Several of my electives in college were in the school of music.
Over the years, I accumulated about 2000 albums -- primarily classical music, but with a smattering of rock, folk, and musicals to give me enough cover to claim some type of eclecticism. That collection accompanied me to San Antonio, Denver, Merced, Kato Achaia, Oxford, Gladstone, Milwaukie, and Salem.
I cannot tell you why, but my interest in the albums waned. I suspect it had a lot to do with technological change. Even though analog quality was far superior to digital in the late 1980s, I started listening to CDs.
In Mexico, music has almost disappeared from my life. My album collection went to Goodwill -- along with the professional turntable I had packed around since I was stationed in Greece. My writing and reading has filled the part of my life that was previously dedicated to music.
But, that is changing. Even though there are few opportunities where I live to attend symphonic concerts or operas, I can get a shadow of the experience through Youtube -- or by building a new music collection. Because digital recordings have greatly improved, I can even do it with CDs. (Not so much with highly-compressed streamed music.)
On Saturday, I will head north for a brief visit. I need to take care of some legal matters that are best attended to in person.
But, while I am there, I intend to look around for some challenging recordings. Richard taught me about Aaron Copland's three categories of how we listen to music (from What to Listen for in Music):
the sensuous plane -- our emotional response to music where we let it wash over us (often while we are engaged in other pursuits; the way everyone experiences music at a visceral level, without much thought to what we are hearing)
the expressive plane -- where we try to determine what the composer's music means
the sheerly musical plane -- where we listen to the music as an abstract art form; or, in Copland's words: "the notes themselves and of their manipulation"
My visit to the Sydney Opera House has revived my interest in opera. When I was in high school, Verdi was the all the rage amongst the opera set. (That was before Elton John raped Aida.) In college, I moved on to Puccini and his "silver spaghetti." Sydney's production of La Boheme revived that interest.
A full set of Puccini operas would be a good start. With a smattering of Verdi and Wagner.
Who knows? The house with no name may even host the occasional night at the opera -- with or without the Marx brothers.
If you are in the neighborhood, stop by. There will be an aria about the place.
For those of you who think they do not like opera, take a look at this extravaganza of Puccini's Turandot, staged in the setting Puccini had imagined -- the Forbidden City.
I was visiting my cousins in Myrtle Point. Me? I was in the sixth grade. Dan was in seventh; Marsha in eighth.
Our mothers went somewhere. My aunt Berneice put Marsha in charge of us unruly boys.
One of Marsha's duties was to prepare supper. She had just opened a tube of Pillsbury uncooked biscuits when I asked for one -- raw. To this day, I do not know why. As far as I know, I had never eaten a raw biscuit. And the idea sounds no more appetizing now.
Of course, she refused. There were only enough biscuits to go around for supper.
I did not take the refusal well. I announced I was leaving for Grandma's house in Powers -- about 20 miles away. And off I headed.
Southern Oregon's mountain roads are well-traveled and not well-designed for walkers. But I was a boy and I was on a great adventure. The miles seemed to speed past.
Somewhere between Broadbent and Gaylord (just over half the way to Powers), I started tiring. So, I did what any other adventurer would do. I stuck out my thumb.
The first car stopped. It was driven by a complete stranger. A traveling salesman.
He was curious what I was doing out in the middle of nowhere on the narrow, winding road. When I told him my tale of righteous indignation, he started laughing so hard, I thought I would never get a ride.
"Hop in. We can't let a story like that not have a happy ending, can we?" And off we went down Highway 42 secondary to Powers. I felt as if my long-lost chauffeur had found me.
I do not recall if anyone came to pick me up that day at Grandma's. I do know I did not get into trouble. And, just to prove that life is usually not fair, Marsha did get in trouble -- for letting me go. As if she could have stopped me. She still reminds me about my recalcitrant side to this day.
I thought of Marsha -- and my Lawton Chiles impression -- yesterday while I was exercising with my walking routine. I had met my goal early in the morning by walking a total of 8 miles to and from church. In the evening, I decided to top off the day.
One thing I have learned about myself is that I am not a very good Greek philosopher. I do nothing in moderation.
When I noticed I was within striking distance of my daily record set last January, I stayed out for almost another hour to earn an award. Mind you, the award was from my telephone app. But an award it was. On Sunday, I walked 34,550 steps for a total of almost 20 miles. That would almost get me to Grandma's house. And without Marsha setting me off on the path of walking obsession, I never could have done it on Sunday.
I think I apologized to Marsha for getting her into trouble (though, I suspect she will say I never did). But, without her, I would not have burned off those 2300 calories.
