can paris rival this?

This is the first sight that greeted me upon returning to Barra de Navidad from San Miguel de Allende.

Well, not really. Following our discussion yesterday about beach people and city folk (all the world's a stage), no one is going to believe this Hopperesque trio is hanging out at the beach. Unless that beach has a Palm modifying it.

My beach crowd would consider the attire overdressed -- even for dinner, let alone afternoon drinks.

You have probably already guessed the provenance of the photograph. It is in San Miguel de Allende. At a trendy bar on the jardin where one can sit right in the window as if auditioning for the job of a mannequin in a I. Magnin display.

When I shot the photograph all sorts of snarky paragraphs started forming in my head. Until I realized I was doing exactly what my college New Left friends did in the 1960s. They would have labeled the revelers as representatives of the petit bourgeoisie. The "petit" was required to round out the insult. The type of people who supported the Establishment by trading away their integrity.

The irony is that the trio enjoying a sunny day in the highlands of Mexico may very well have been the same type of critics back then. Politics has a wondrous way of transforming revolutionaries into the elite.

You will probably not be surprised that I was not a member of the New Left when I was in college. On most days, I wore a three-piece suit. Because I helped work my way through college, I went directly to work after classes.

But I was always baffled by the petit bourgeoisie slur. On the first day of my US history class, our professor asked us to raise our hands if we were upper class, middle class, or lower class. Everyone, with one exception, professed to be middle class. (The exception was a friend who was the son of a federal judge and had led a very privileged life. Clad in his blue working man shirt, he claimed to be a member of the "working class." My guffaw was not subtle.)

And, of course, petit bourgeoisie is just a fancy French word used by revolutionaries for the middle class. If being middle class was such a bad thing, why did we all identify with it?

The reason is simple. Because the middle class is not a bad thing. In fact, it is middle class values that helped mould the country where I was born. Values like Ambition. Self-discipline. Thrift. Hard work. Honesty. Aspiration. Fidelity.

They were the values I was taught when I was young. And they were not exclusive to the middle class. They were the Horatio Alger milestones that promised people of all social levels a better existence.

Did the middle class always live up to those values? Of course not. But they were the ideals we wanted to live by even when we failed to follow through consistently.

When I look at that photograph, I do not see people of the petit bourgeoisie. I see flawed souls who have done their best to make their way through life with a set of values that have at least given them the reward of sipping wine in one of the quaintest towns in the highlands of Mexico.

May they and their values thrive.

all the world's a stage

Shakespeare had it right.

Life really does seem to be a staged performance. He claimed it had seven acts. My experience is the acts are legion.

My mother is a big believer in wearing the appropriate costume for every activity in life. The idea is to let your clothes reflect the best of you.

I tend to be far more utilitarian.

On my second Sunday in the highlands, I decided to attend services at the Community Church of San Miguel (in one accord). Because I was going to walk the two miles there, I put on my walking shoes and walking shorts. As a tip of the sartorial hat to my mother, I donned a snappy shirt. And off I went.

My thoughts were that this is Mexico. No one at my beach church would even have noticed what I was wearing.

But it was San Miguel de Allende. I had just walked in when, one of my friends commented: "Do you think you are still at the beach?"

I have become accustomed to similar comments. Several years ago, I attended a Latin America Bloggers' Conference in Mérida with my friend Wayne. He lives on Isla de Mujeres. About as beachy as you can get.

The opening night at the library, we both attended decked out in our city slicker party togs. It was a fitting disguise because it admitted us to a group of city dwellers who were making disparaging remarks about beach people -- their attitude, their attire, the usual low gutter gossip some people indulge in hoping it makes their station in life more noteworthy.

A more light-hearted version of the same scenario happened at a dinner party just outside of San Miguel de Allende. Due to a misunderstanding on my part, I was unable to change clothes following a two-hour walk before I had to leave for the party. It was the same attire that I had worn to church, but the shirt was sweaty rather than snappy.

When I arrived, I made my apologies to the host and hostess who were more than gracious. They were happy to have me there.

It wasn't until I joined the rest of the group that I realized I had grabbed the wrong costume for this scene in the play. They all looked as if they were auditioning for the next edition of Luxury Senior Living. I almost expected Caroline Astor and Jackie Onassis to saunter through.

When we sat down to eat, I chose a seat amongst strangers, and apologized for my attire. Before I could explain my situation, the prim, well-turned-out woman on my right peered at me over the top of her glasses and said: "That's OK, dear. We just thought you were one of the beach people. I guess I was correct."

It is an odd division. City folk. Beach people. But apparently it exists in a lot of minds.

If you ask City folk to be honest about us beachies, they will tell you that they think of us as akin to lizards lounging in the sun while trying to lap up as much tequila as possible in the shortest amount of time.

Of course, the beach people are often every bit as unkind about their city colleagues. Prissy elitists who sip wine while convincing themselves their Good Deeds keep Mexico from collapsing into a heap of decaying protoplasm.

I don't buy either myth. But I certainly do buy into the costume requirements. Otherwise, I would not have given a second thought to my sweaty wear at the dinner party. My mother has taken her Shakespearean pound of flesh on that front.

When I go to any town larger than our villages -- say, Manzanilo, Colima, Guadalajara -- I always wear what I call my big boy pants. Along with a dress shirt and good shoes. Had I not been suffering from blisters on my feet, that is what I would have worn to church in San Miguel de Allende.

To me, it just seems the right thing to do. Because I go to the cities for business, my tourist costume just seems to be the right choice. A lot of my beach friends disagree. They are quite happy being dressed as if they were heading to an hour at the gym.

And that is what makes life interesting. We are each living our own play. Choosing our own roles. Switching into the costumes that reflect who we would like to be. Will Shakespeare in a post-postmodern world.

All the world’s a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances;And one man in his time plays many parts.

hb mp

I would make a terrible husband.

Remembering anniversaries is a stretch for me. For example, I completely forgot a major milestone last December. The tenth anniversary of Mexpatriate.

On 19 December 2007, I published my first story announcing my evolving thoughts of retiring to Mexico. And, like any good novel, the theme that has run through every subsequent post appeared in that first essay. "I had looked at buying property on the Oregon coast, but I wanted something more adventurous: I wanted to wake up each morning not knowing what type of skills I would need to get through the day."

Since then, you have been on trips with me to six continents. Watched Jiggs grow old and die; and Barco stay young and die. I lived on the beach and then the infamous laguna. With crocodiles and snakes and birds. I bought a house. Acquired a son. Went through two Escapes. Writing about all of them as a way to keep a journal for myself and to share this joyous life in Mexico.

In a pique of personal betrayal, I even abandoned the blog. For a couple of days. Then, I was back because the blog has become an important device for me to build a framework around a life that otherwise would lack focus. Knowing that I may write about any daily experience, I start looking at life's details that I would otherwise ignore. In effect, I have developed a journalist's eye for existence. Or, at least, an editorialist's eye.

That number (10) seems odd to me. It feels longer than that that I have been writing Mexpatriate. Almost as if it has been part of my life for decades.

But, it simultaneously seems less than that. As if time has folded over on itself. I can remember sitting down to write that first essay as if I had written it yesterday in my computer room.

What I cannot remember is what I was writing on 19 December last year that replaced what should have been an anniversary post.

It turns out I wrote nothing. My friend Robin was here then, and we must have been having such a good time that I Steve Martined the date -- I forgot.

And that would be appropriate. After all, I did not move to Mexico to be a robotic reciter of rote dates. I came here for adventure. Difficulty. Conflict.

So, happy belated anniversary, Mexpatriate. I do not know how many more days, months, or years you have left in you. But I intend to enjoy the ride as long as I can.

crime in mexico

I am fed up with news stories about crime in Mexico.

If you read newspapers or watch television news, you know what I mean. If the name "Mexico" is in the story, you do not need to travel very few words until you crash into "crime" or "drugs" or "murder" -- or all three if it is a particularly lurid tale.

Don't get me wrong. There is plenty of crime here. Even in my idyllic village that some visitors naively call "paradise."

But Mexico is far more than that. There are daily accomplishments here that are news-worthy.

The Economist, my favorite newspaper (as it likes to style itself) is rather good at running stories that are not crime-oriented. In-depth election analysis. Mexico's place in the world petroleum market. The challenges Mexico faces in resuscitating its ossified public education system.

That is why I was a bit startled when I started reading a story in last week's edition. The story led off as a crime tale, but it quickly morphed into an intellectual property dispute.

You probably have already heard the story from other sources. Isabel Marant, one of France's most popular designers, is accused of copying a shirt design used by Tzeltal women in Aguacatenango, Chiapas, and then trying to register her design as intellectual property before another designer could steal what she herself had lifted. My family would call that chutzpah.

Because we have entered an era where every problem is the moral equivalent of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the immediate reaction was hysteria -- followed by repeatedly running in circles while dousing hair with kerosene while playing with a Bic lighter.

This drama has all of the elements of a modern passion play. Wealthy white European woman. Oppressed Mexican mothers. That new jargon bugaboo "culture appropriation." Theft. Imperialism. They were all there.

It is very easy to empathize with the Tzeltal women. It takes one woman 36 hours to make, embroider, and sew a dress with the village's flower and wheat design. She will then sell it for the equivalent of $6 (US). You have probably already done the math. That is about $.16 an hour.

Marant is not alone in trying to make a euro off of the needle-pricked fingers of the Tzeltal. Zara, an online Spanish store, has been selling similar knock-offs for the past year. There are at least ten other merchants who are selling Mexican Indian designs without credit, permission, or payment.

I do agree with the critics in their more rational moments. It is morally wrong that designs associated with a region do not require some sort of payment for copies. Morally wrong, but legal.

There is no law to cover the intellectual property in regional designs -- even though there is a conference of nations that has been working on devising protections for indigenous art. Even with such a narrow focus, they have come up with nothing after 17 years of talking.

Crafting a rule is not easy. Most intellectual property cannot be passed from one generation to the next. That is why there are no rules covering the work of the Tzeltals. And it is devilishly hard to define what is authentically indigenous. Anthropologists tell us the current designs of the Tzeltals are not the same as their pre-columbian ancestors. The debate then turns on what is truly authentic.

And, if a rule is written, it will not cover what Marant and Zara did. Even though the designs are quite similar to what the Tzeltals make, they have distinct differences. All intellectual property laws have exceptions. This one will, as well.

The big exception is "fair use." That exception allows reviewers to quote sections of books, satirists to poke fun at Broadway musicals, and artists to use the works of others to create their own pieces. Without the exception, every artist would be an intellectual property criminal.

Andrew Lloyd Webber worked a musical thread from another composer into "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Stephen Sondheim claimed he was not lifting the first line of "I'll be Home for Christmas" when he wrote "Goodbye for Now." And, in "Las Meninas," Pablo Picasso just outright copied Diego Velázquez's original -- in his own style, of course.

By that standard, the designer pieces most likely would never be considered as copies. But, copies of the Tzeltals' work are being made. In Asia.

And here is the irony. The fakes are sold 29 miles from Aguacatenango in San Cristóbal de las Casas. The Asian knock-offs sit on shelves side-by-side with the real deal. And the Mexican government does nothing to stop it.

That would be a good start. Mexico alone can do nothing about Spanish and French designers lifting ideas. But it could outlaw the sale of fake goods that depress the prices of the genuine handicraft.

The Economist had a second idea. Globalization and the internet may be the best solution to protect the income of the Tzeltals. By putting their genuine creations on line, they can sell to a world-wide audience.

It will not affect the designer-mad customers who must have a genuine Marant. But, it will allow people of conscience to do something positive with their opinions -- by using their wallets to support their convictions.

A Mexican senator was quoted as describing what Marant and Zara are doing is an unconscionable act of theft that violates the very spirit of Mexico. You are correct, senator.

But, I found that to be a bit ironic because Mexico is the poster child for intellectual property theft. Software. CDs. DVDs. Handbags. Clothing. All of them sold without one centavo going back to the people who created them. Yes, senator, it is unconscionable theft. All of it.

And there is the rub with both of my proposed solutions. I have several friends here who know the DVDs they buy are not only stolen property, but that the local cartel is the source. That does not keep them from tucking their morality in their wallet between the pesos they saved by buying fenced goods. The same people who would be indignant if someone purchased their stolen computer.

At least, the market solution may give the women of Aguacatenango some breathing space while our world leaders try to come up with a simple intellectual property rule to protect them. Right after they figure out that pesky world peace thing.

My advice? Focus that moral indignation by buying an authentic design. It will make you feel better -- and pretty.

nice to meat you

Consider yourself lucky.

I was fully prepared to write an essay about an intellectual property controversy in Mexico. The type of essay that would have required you to don your Wittgenstein waders.

But, while walking back from breakfast with Ed and Roxane this morning, I noticed a change in the Barra de Navidad neighborhood. A new butcher shop has opened. Well, an old butcher shop has opened in a new location.

Since I moved to Mexico in 2009, I usually bought my meat needs at La Vaquita Feliz (The Happy Cow) in San Patricio. It was handy when I lived in Villa Obregón, and, probably out of inertia, I did not look for a new butcher when I moved to Barra de Navidad.

That changed with the arrival of my brother and sister-in-law. Because they do not have a car here, they explored parts of the neighborhood I had not seen. One of their discoveries was a butcher shop. El Tunco 2.

I knew the name. El Tunco 1 is in Villa Obregón. 3 is in San Patricio.

Following my family's lead, I have bought my meat at El Tunco 2 since then. The reason I did not notice the shop earlier was its location. It is in a commercial area near one of our major grocery stores. But, because I was not looking for it, I never saw it.

This past winter, construction began at a far better location. I have written about Nueva España before. It is the main street through our neighborhood. Primarily commercial. It seemed to be a good fit for improving foot traffic for the butcher. (Even though El Tunco 4 is just a couple of blocks away on Nueva España.)

The construction was steady through the year. Just before I left for San Miguel de Allende, it appeared the new opening was imminent because the meat cases were being installed. It turns out that the store opened just after I left.

So, today I stopped by the shop to buy a healthy piece of pork loin. I am going to try a bit of fusion cuisine for lunch.

Omar had cooked up a bowl of brown rice. A good portion of it is still in the refrigerator. With some ginger, eggs, fresh fish sauce, soy sauce, an habanero, several serranos, maybe some red and yellow bell peppers, carrots, celery, peas, perhaps a few local mushrooms, and an African sauce I have been experimenting with, I should be able to send Omar off to school with a full stomach.

The one thing I can count on is that the quality of the meat. Whoever supplies it to El Tunco, knows his product.

Thanks are in order to Darrel and Christy for steering me to El Tunco. And congratulations are in order to El Tunco for its new location.

choosing my mask

Halloween arrives earlier every year.

Not the day itself. Halloween has haunted the nights of 31 October since our pagan fur-clad Celtic ancestors danced around bonfires on Samhain.

What comes earlier is the merchandising of the holiday. That is quite understandable in The States. It is the second most lucrative holiday -- Christmas, of course, being the most expensive. Last year, Americans spent the equivalent of $86.13 per person to dress up in costumes that cause apoplexy amongst the cultural police.

It makes sense for stores to cash in early on those open wallets. And they do.

Mexico is no exception. Earlier in the month, I visited the Antea shopping center in Querétaro (another reason people might like san miguel de allende). One of my stops was Liverpool. A department store I would compare to the old Macy's. Slightly upscale without being flashy. I had stopped there to shop for furniture. For the library, in particular. I found four pieces that would fit perfectly.

But I decided to look for other candidates. Thoughts of another sofa were pushed out of my head when I turned around.

I have seen Halloween displays in Mexico before. Soriana, La Comer, and Walmart in Manzanillo always have piles and racks of costumes for children.

But this was different. It was a stand-alone display heralding the arrival of Halloween. Complete with a blow-up tombstone emblazoned with "Trick or Treat." There was no attempt at an Hegelian synthesis with the Day/Night of the Dead celebration. It was unadulterated Halloween. As pure as anything you would find in Boston. Or Rapid City.

I am not one of those expatriates that goes all weak-kneed when I see another culture's tradition being absorbed into another. Probably because I grew up in the United States which is one big pottage of various parts of the world's cultures. Immigrants bring their culture with them. America absorbs it.

About a month ago, Omar's best friend, Lupe, told me he did not like "American" food. I am not certain if I had ever thought about it before, but his use of the term confused me. I asked him what he meant because I had no idea what "American" food was.

He responded: "Pizza. Fettuccine. Spaghetti."

I started laughing. "Lupe, those are Italian foods. Not American."

He then listed a number of other European or Asian foods. I gave him a similar answer.

Of course, all of the foods he mentioned have morphed in American hands. But, with the exception of hot dogs and hamburgers (and both of those are arguably European), I am not certain there is such a thing as American food. Most of it came from elsewhere.

Mexico is also a cultural sponge. People bring other traditions here, and Mexicans pick what they like and make it their own.

The appearance of Halloween items in Mexico is fraught with irony. The purists bemoan the appearance of jack-o-lanterns (just as they hated the absorption of Santa Claus and the Easter bunny), fearing that it will somehow hamper the great Indian tradition of Day/Night of the Dead.

The only problem with that position is its premise. It is true that some pre-Columbian tribes in Mexico had an annual tradition of sitting and visiting with their dead. But it was regional, not throughout all of Mesoamerica. And not all the tribes celebrated on the same day.

Then, the Spanish showed up. The priests, who were an integral component of the conquest, decided to put an end to the pagan practice -- but in a very Roman Catholic way.

The church had already winked at the resurrection of the Aztec goddess Tonantzin as Our Lady of Guadalupe, so, the solution was simple and elegant. The Purépecha around Lake Pátzcuaro were one of the tribes that regularly practiced the annual dead veneration.

Rather than attempt to outlaw the practice, the church squeezed the custom through the Catholic sausage grinder by conducting a hostile takeover requiring all the tribes to celebrate on a day of the church's choosing. The date was easy. Because the tribes were honoring the dead, the church would slip it into another day honoring the dead -- All Saints' Day.

Not being content with that bit of cultural appropriation, the church also required that all altars must contain at least one Catholic religious symbol. The rest could be made up of as many pagan pieces as the tribes cared to use. If a Purépecha warrior from 1520 were to wander into the cemetery at Tzurumutaro this year during the celebration, he would certainly recognize what was happening, even though the date and Christian iconography might confuse him.

It was not until the 1960s that the Mexican Minister of Education declared Day/Night of the Dead would be an all-Mexico tradition, and that it would be taught in the schools to perpetuate its celebration.

Like most top-down edicts in Mexico, it worked only where the tradition was celebrated. There are plenty of places in Mexico -- especially the north -- where any celebration of the day is so low key as to be almost invisible. Someone looking for a Coco experience in Monterrey would be sorely disappointed.

My advice to the people who are standing in the road of the hobgoblin of history and yelling "stop" is to step aside before you are run down. Day/Night of the Dead has survived the nips and tucks of the Roman Catholic church. I would not be surprised to see Mexico incorporate some Halloween elements in their celebration. When the school kids build their altars in the San Patricio square, they almost always manage to work in some sort of Halloween item.

And they are not wrong in doing that. Remember the pagan Celtic holiday of Samhain? For some of us, that is our ancestral heritage, and the Catholic church did to it what it did to the Day/Night of the Dead. It turned the day into All Hallow's Eve (thus, Halloween) -- or, as we know it in this context: All Saint's Eve.

And that is why Halloween and Day/Night of the Dead are celebrated at the same time of the year. The Celtic and Mexican tribes both lost their tradition to the Catholic church -- and, each in their own way, has retained it.

And if that bothers some people, we may just have to stop calling our little village San Patricio. I am certain that the missionary to the Celtics, who adopted him as their patron saint, would appreciate the irony.

Happy shopping.

Oh, just in case you are curious, my Halloween costume this year will be that of a retired Oregon attorney who writes essays and lives in Mexico permanently. I bet you will not even recognize me.

when in rome

I am a "go-to" guy on a handful of topics.

Spanish is not one of them.

If you want to know the subtleties of Spanish, go see Hank -- or Felipe -- or Kim. But I am not your guy.

That is why I was a bit confused when a manager at one of my favorite local restaurants asked me: "Why do so many Canadians [here, that means any European-looking person] respond with 'finito' when I ask them if they have finished eating? Do they think we are Italian?"

He is absolutely correct on all scores. I repeatedly hear foreigners in Mexico say "finito" when they are done with their meal. But they are using the wrong language.

"Finito" means "finished" in Italian. There is a Spanish word "finito," but it has an entirely different meaning. It means "finite" -- as in, God's Grace is infinite; my patience is finite. And that, certainly, is not what most foreigners mean when they say "finito" here.

Here is my tyro linguist hint. When you are in Venice, and you have just finished off the best cuttlefish cooked in its own ink that you have ever tasted, feel free to let loose with that "finito" you have had corked up for use somewhere other than a Spanish-speaking country.

But, if you are at Papa Gallo's in San Patricio and have just had the world's best coctel de camarones, and the waiter gives you that all-knowing lifted eyebrow, stifle the urge to practice your Italian. and respond with a hearty "terminado" (even though that sounds ominously like something out of labor law or a discredited CIA practice).

As for me, having tempted my taste buds, I am searching for a good cuttlefish recipe. The trick will be catching the cuttlefish.

If I do, I can say this essay is "finito."