Some expatriates and tourists love saying there are no rules in Mexico. They are wrong.
Public venues are festooned with signs. Some in almost impenetrable international symbols. But, the message is always clear -- someone in authority does not want you to do a long list of things.
Whether or not the rules are obeyed is a completely different topic. You might get a hint from one of the most frequent highway signs that exhorts drivers to "obey the signs." I imagine a car driving past one of those signs and the driver thinking: "I never thought of that. Maybe I should obey the signs. -- Naw!"
There is one sign I am seeing more frequently -- not just in Mexico, but around the world. You can see an example at the top of this essay.
That is not an iPhone. It is a kiosk setting out the rules for customers who want to use the small shopping mall in San Miguel de Allende. There are the usual warnings and prohibitions. Do not leave valuables in your car. No bicycles. No roller skates. Respect the green areas. Curb your dog.
And today's topic. No cameras. Without prior authorization.
Cameras have quickly become restricted in more public spaces. Churches. Museums. Governmental institutions.
There are good reasons for those restrictions. Some sacred (in churches). Some to avoid light damage (with flash). Some to prevent pedestrian jams in front of cultural icons (the Mona Lisa being the most obvious, but there are plenty of other examples). And sometimes the sign seems to show up in some Podunklan museum just because the curator saw a similar sign in a bigger museum.
But, a shopping center?
It would be easy to dismiss the restriction as being just another unobserved rule. However, this one is enforced. I know from experience.
Five years ago, I was standing next to the parking lot of the same shopping center shooting cloud when one of the security guards told me I could not take photographs at the shopping mall (what's with this?). Not even the sky. It was The Rule.
This year I spent hours on my daily walks at the shopping center. As a result, I got to know several of the security guards. I must have walked by the rules kiosk a hundred times in the first week I was in San Miguel de Allende.
One day, I decided to bring my camera -- to shoot the kiosk. Just as I pulled out my camera, one of the guards I knew best rushed over and told me cameras were not allowed. I pointed out that they were with permission.
He cocked his head like a spaniel and warily asked if I had permission. I smiled. "Who do I get permission from?" He had no idea.
So, I changed tack. I pulled out my telephone and focused the camera. This was his turn to smile. He nodded and walked away.
Well, it makes sense. The sign clearly indicates no cameras. It does not show a telephone. True, it says "no photographs," but what does it matter?
In the end, I had what I wanted. An illustration to accompany this essay.
But, I am curious about the "no camera" signs you have encountered. Do you have any tales?
A month of being embedded in serious music in San Miguel de Allende, rather than slaking my thirst, has heightened my desire to be surrounded by it. That is rather easy to do in the house. I can summons Wagner's valkyrie from my various sound systems to do battle with the neighborhood stereos.
This morning I opened Jan Swafford's Language of the Spirit at the Beethoven chapter -- where I had left off reading it a month or so ago. "Consider Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. It has long been the most famous symphony in the world, which means that it has gone beyond a cultural monument and become some kind of cultural cliché, like the Mona Lisa surrounded by an army of cell phones taking its picture.
The Fifth is the result of musical genius. But, I decided since Swafford was going to take several pages analyzing it, I should listen to it with an ear for detail.
For months, as I have extended the length of my walks, I have struggled with a solution to the inevitable boredom that sets in. So, I cranked up Bernstein's version of the Fifth on Youtube, stuck in my ear phones, and headed off on my walk.
Bernstein's conducting was impeccable. The Youtube version had great fidelity. And I was closely following the musical themes as they developed.
Then, I remembered why I have not tried earphones in the past. They appear to be a magnet for people to come up and start talking.
Because I have done my best to train out my natural rudeness, I do a perfunctory stop and walk in circles while I talk to my interlocutor. There are always information nuggets to mine.
When it was not people, it was my telephone interrupting the music with notices of the multitude of communications I receive each hour through Facebook, Messenger, Gmail, and MagicJack. It was almost like trying to write a legal brief at home while tending three pre-school children and trying to answer seven telephone lines.
Let's just say that the experiment resulted in far more frustration than musical enlightenment. While I write, Beethoven is working those three monumental notes into a musical tapestry.
And, speaking of music immersion, I just realized I never told you about the second half of the chamber music festival. The very festival that has put a burr under my second violin cushion.
I will cut to the chase (as the movie people say). The second half of the festival was as good as the first (can't stop the music). That is not surprising. Because this was the festival's 40th anniversary, the five groups invited to play were some of the best in the world.
The last two groups differed in some very fundamental ways. The most fundamental was the makeup of each group. The Horszowski Trio (as the name implies) consists of a piano, a violin, and a cello. They were new to the festival. But they were augmented by the viola of Masumi Per Rostad. He is a veteran of the festival.
During their two concerts, they performed some familiar and some challenging pieces. Challenging for both the performers and the audience.
Antonin Dvořák, "Piano Trio No. 4 in E minor" (1891)
Felix Mendelssohn, "Piano Trio No. 2 in C minor" (1845)
Robert Schumann, "Piano Quartet in E-flat major" (1842)
Robert Schumann, "Piano Trio No. 1 in D minor" (1847)
Dmitri Shostakovich, "Piano Trio No. 2 in E minor" (1944)
Gabriel Fauré, "Piano Quartet No. 1 in C minor" (1i883)
I have long been agnostic about Shostakovich and his work under Stalin's tyranny. But, I have started to soften.
That may be due to the portrayal of musicians suffering in The Death of Stalin. (If you have not seen it, I recommend it. I will never look at Beria the same again. Wicked satire is an understatement.) I am starting to appreciate how he could retain a vestige of creativity under the world's most evil government.
The Shostakovich piano trio is a powerful piece of work. Especially, the third movement. The author of the program notes puts it this way. "Block chords in the piano, bleak and black, begin the Largo." Unfortunately, as played that night, the notes were far more mechanical than bleak.
I attributed that interpretation to the violin's introduction where he tried to subtly draw a comparison between Russia's destruction and resurrection in the Second World War to contemporary politics. I thought he was referring to Putin. The man sitting behind me thought he was referring to Trump. Either way, I thought the eccentric performance was an intended anachronism.
The Fine Arts Quartet is a well-established group. That means that they are older. Their much younger selves performed at the first chamber music festival in 1979.
Being older, they have a very staid style. They are not so much interpreters of the music as they are the voice of the composer. There are very few stage antics. At times, there is very little animation.
With one exception (you can pick it out by the name you will not recognize), they also performed a strong program. And performed it as yeomen.
Ludwig van Beethoven, "String Quartet No. 1 in F major" (1798-1800)
Ralph Evans, "String Quartet No. 1" (1995)
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, "String Quartet No. 1 in D major" (1871)
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, "String Quartet No. 19 in C major" (1785)
Dmitri Shostakovitch, "String Quartet No. 11 in F minor" (1966)
Claude Debussy, "String Quartet in G minor" (1893)
For those of you who may be interested in improving your appreciation of serious music, I discovered an interesting tool on Youtube. Someone has gone to the trouble of making videos complete with the score. You can actually see themes developing, as well as hearing them.
On the last night of the concert, a young realtor sat next to me. I suspect he was there because it was good for business. But, he was also interested in learning. Unlike most tyros, he did not pretend he knew what he did not. After the interval, he leaned over and asked me the proper way to pronounce "Debussy." I was happy to oblige.
In that spirit, I offer the Debussy piece complete with scores for those who are curious to learn. May you listen long and proper.
I know that flies in the face of stereotypes some northerners have imposed on Mexico. The peon in white pajamas, sandals, and a serape sleeping propped up in the shade of a cactus while his burro waits patiently nearby is so ubiquitous that Mexicans have turned it into a sardonic joke by selling tourists salt and pepper shakers of the bucolic scene.
There is only one problem. There is not a shred of truth in it. It is true that my neighbors (especially in the summer heat) do eat a big meal at 2 and then take a rest. But that is only because they are readying themselves for the rest of the work day that can last until 9 or 10.
There is no better example of that industriousness than construction sites. Almost everything is done by hand. Including lugging pails of concrete along a work gang that must finish pouring a roof in only one afternoon.
But, one thing baffled me. Why was it built so deep into the residential neighborhood? It turns out, my Mexican neighbors have been shopping there a lot. A large number with credit cards. But, most OXXOs thrive on tourist trade. And there has been just a trickle of that.
I should not have been surprised. When I bought the house, it was on the eastern edge of Barra de Navidad. Since then, the neighborhood has grown. New houses. A restaurant. A bakery. An indoor football field built outside. A beach wear shop that morphed into a gift shop then an abarrote and is now a carnitas stand. The only construction that seems stalled is a storage-retail enterprise that re-starts construction only when the Canadian owner is in town.
Ours is a dynamic Mexican neighborhood. The type of place my anti-tradition friend Maria in Mexico City believes represents the true spirit of Mexico.
And I think I now know why that OXXO is where it is. I was correct that it was built as a tourist magnet. I just did not know from where the source of tourists would come. I do now.
When I returned from San Miguel de Allende, I noticed men laying out lines of lime on the empty lots across the street from the hardware store on Nueva España, the main street a block south of my house. My brother was a contractor. So, I knew what was about to happen. A new building was on its way. I just did not know what kind.
On Monday, a backhoe was digging footings. Large footings. I asked him if it was a house or a business. He told me: "It is a hotel."
That seemed odd. I walked across the street to talk with Sergio, the hardware man. He seems to know most everything about construction in the neighborhood. He said the same thing. A hotel.
Now, "hotel" can mean all kinds of establishments. I am quite certain that it is not a Four Seasons all-inclusive resort. This is Barra de Navidad and the footprint is too small.
But, there are lots of other possibilities. A boutique hotel to rival those in New York's Soho? A set of bungalows for families? Maybe a hot-sheet love motel similar to the one that squats over Felipe's wall in the highlands?
I have no idea. Even though I am intrigued with the idea of one of Mexico's love nests settling down in my neighborhood. It would certainly spice up the character of the street.
Instead, we will probably get the Mexican equivalent of a Motel 6. And that will also be fine. We have a carnitas stand, a bakery, a restaurant, an Oxxo, and in indoor football field built outdoors to keep our new visitors amused.
Who could ask for anything more than that for a visit to the beach?
And if you think that is enough, here is Madonna with one of Stephen Sondheim's derivative ditties to convince you otherwise.
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.
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.
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.
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.
