It has become very fashionable lately to attack social media. But blogs, for over a decade, have been a reliable source of information for me. And a place to build relationships.
I am not referring merely to the authors who share their thoughts with us. Authors would toil in vain without readers to ponder their meanderings. What Marcel Duchamp said about the art of painting applies equally to the art of writing.
The spectator completes the art. The creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.
The great thing about blog relationships is you never know where they will lead.
A couple of months ago my blog chum Jennifer Rose told me she had purchased an Instant Pot on Amazon -- and it had changed her life. She said I needed one.
I should have listened better. Jennifer has never steered me wrong in the years we have known one another reading each other's work.
For some reason, I thought an Instant Pot was a slow cooker -- one of those 1970s fad items gifted by grandmothers, to be tucked away in a dark corner of a lower kitchen cabinet.
Just over a week ago, Jennifer and I were in the midst of a post mortem on the Kavanaugh confirmation process when she asked me if I had looked into buying an Instant Pot. I told her I had no interest in a slow cooker.
Elizabeth II may be Defender of the Faith, but Jennifer is one of The Defenders of the English Language. If I had given the name much thought, I would have realized "instant" and "slow" are not synonyms.
Her defense of the Instant Pot was so eloquent, a jury would have found Brutus not guilty of assassinating Julius Caesar. It sounded like a miracle appliance.
So, I ordered one from Amazon.Mx. At 8 this evening, the man from Estafeta (rather than DHL) showed up just as I drove into my garage. When I opened the box, I discovered what looked like an R2D2 impersonator. And that is not a bad thing. After all, familiarity and modernity are not always fellow handmaidens.
I was not surprised to discover my little robot has a very short electrical cord. That seems to be standard issue in Mexico. The blender. The food processor. The toaster oven. All have cords so short, I need to be a contortionist to use what are sardonically called labor-saving devices. It turns out this cord is not a Mexican truncation. Glancing through the safety warnings (Yes. I do read them. I am a lawyer, after all), the cord is short to avoid accidents that will pull the whole pressure cooking mess onto some poor unsuspecting soul -- like hot oil on invaders scaling the castle walls. The pot is now sitting on my kitchen work table awaiting the arrival of a much-acclaimed Instant Pot cookbook. "Cookbook" is probably the wrong word. I looked at a sample of it on my Kindle. It is a cooking concept book. Rather than being stuffed with recipes, it teaches new users of the Instant Pot how to manipulate its characteristics to make healthy meals.
By mere chance, another of my blogger pals, Leslie Limon, has a new cookbook that will be released on 30 October. Everyday Mexican Instant Pot Cookbook: Regional Classics Made Fast and Simple. You can pre-order either a paperback or Kindle version. An Instant Pot and Mexican food. Jennifer was correct. It is versatile.
You can brace yourselves for more cooking tales from my kitchen. I am looking forward to sharing my failures. After all, that is how we truly learn.
If any of you have Instant Pot tales, let's put Duchamp to the test. A tale read is a work of art completed.
I have written several times about Amazon's penetration into the Mexican general merchandise market. Living here used to mean living with what Mexico had to offer. And we did.
But, as my Mexico City amiga Maria the Modernist likes to point out, that version of Mexico is swiftly disappearing. Once an insular society, Mexico (with its economy 15th largest in the world) is becoming a major player in global trade. We can thank NAFTA for the psychological shift.
Amazon has long offered merchandise to customers in Mexico. But the online system that worked like a Cook County Democrat ward heeler in The States tended to get a little clunky in shipping across borders. Taxes. Customs duties. The full panoply of bureaucratic barriers.
Then, Amazon christened Amazon.Mx -- its Mexican manifestation -- a couple of years ago. What could be better?
Well, I thought it was all Amazon. It turns out the miracle of transforming a book in a Kentucky warehouse or an instant pot in a Mexico City bodega into something in my house requites more than just Amazon. It requires a delivery service.
Now, it would be nice if a liveried footman would fetch my goods directly from Amazon. But, all of mine have been hired away by Downton Abbey and The Crown.
I have long been reluctant to order products online for delivery at the house because I am so seldom there -- and the delivery windows, often ranged over a full week.
I thought I had maneuvered around that by using my postal box for deliveries -- until a new postmaster declared that private carriers could not use the post office as a drop-off point. Without paying a fee.
I should have known technology would come to the rescue. And DHL, our local service, is a paragon of efficiency. Not only do the drivers find my house on the first try with GPS, but the company keeps me informed about the exact delivery date of my orders.
Yesterday, I received an email that my Ecco shoes would be delivered this afternoon. In the morning, a second email updated the delivery to today. I also received a text message informing me of the good news.
I was sitting next to the swimming pool finishing up the last chapter of Testimony, when I heard tires crunching on the gravel in front of the house. A flash of yellow through the crack in the garage door removed all doubt. DHL was here with my package.
With a quickly scrawled signature on the screen of the driver's telephone, I had my package. And within 10 minutes, my smart phone informed me my package had been delivered.
Let me compare that with a not-so-successful system. I like the Mexican postal system. But no one will ever compare it successfully with DHL.
I bought a pair of pajamas from an Amazon vendor in Mexico City. Rather than place the package in the hands of DHL, the vendor dropped it into the postal maw.
Amazon has a usually-informative on-line delivery status for each order. For over a week, it showed my pajamas with only the last action -- "delivered to postal service." Then another week. No change. On a whim, I stopped by the post office in Barra de Navidad. When I asked about my package, the clerk dug through piles of packages and letters. And there it was. It had been sitting unsorted for 10 days. To this day, the Amazon system has not been informed the package was delivered.
So, as much as I celebrate what Amazon now offers to customers in Mexico, it is the DHL delivery system that has won me over with its efficiency.
And that is not just talk. In the midst of this essay, I ordered four books and a DVD from Amazon, and an instant pot from Amazon. Mx. And I am confident that I will soon be scribbling on the DHL driver's telephone after being informed exactly when I need to be home.
An essay hangs in your mind -- almost perfectly formed. Like a dragonfly hovering over a pond. And it then flits away. Just like that.
Or, sometimes, it really is a dragonfly.
That is what happened to me this afternoon. I was lounging by the pool trying to finish off the Turow novel I had just purchased, when I noticed a small dragonfly darting back and forth across the pool. Now and then, it would perform a touch and go on the surface of the water. But, primarily, it just hovered about five feet above the surface.
I have always found dragonflies fascinating. Probably because they remind me of helicopters. With those canopy bug-eyes and their prototype rotors.
They are beautiful. As long as you are not another insect. Then, they are as deadly as any attack helicopter.
My visitor today spent a lot of time hovering in place. Then she would catch an updraft and soar almost to the second level of the house, only to settle again in her geosynchronous position over the pool. Those of us who were raised in the anthropomorphic Disney tradition would have projected human emotions on her. She was simply enjoy the freedom and joy of flight that all humans wish we had -- and some believe that they do.
But, it would not be true. Dragonflies are not burdened with anything as sentimental as human emotions.
The dragonfly was not visiting me to recite "High Flight." No slipping surly bonds for her.
She was there to do what she was designed to do. A perfect killing machine to feast on other flying insects.
Her attraction to my swimming pool was not coincidental. She knew that if you want to hunt ducks, you go where the ducks are. In this case, because other flying insects are attracted to the water in the pool, she was hanging out in a target-rich environment.
That called for a photograph. And the shooting should have been easier than it was. Even though it seemed as if she were constantly hovering, she wasn't. She would dart in almost every direction to assassinate her lunch.
So, I have no photograph of her. Instead, I will offer someone else's photograph of these beautifully sleek killers.
And, if you have got this far without noting that I have merely substituted sentimental anthropomorphology for a more gruesome sort, I offer up one of my favorite shticks from The Simpsons -- in the spirit that every writer has nightmares that the right line will come only after the publication deadline.
Expatriates living in Mexico are like mixed couple marriages.
We get the best of both worlds when it comes to holidays. Mexican and American. And, in our particular part of Mexico, we get a third bunch as a bonus. Canadian.
Today was one of the latter. It is Canadian thanksgiving.
I have never heard a persuasive reason why our expatriate/tourist population is so heavily weighted in favor of Canadians. At least, not a theory I would be willing to commit to print. But, depending on who you talk with, during the winter months the mix is about 75-90% Canadian.
As the calendar would have it, the two big Canada-centric holidays (Canada Day and Thanksgiving) occur while most Canadians are enjoying their northern climes. It is not until next month when the V-formations migrate south.
As many of you know, I have a heavy dose of Canadian blood in my veins. Almost a century's worth of snuggling into Prince Edward Island and Quebec. So, I feel as if the Canadian holidays are mine to celebrate by birthright.
However, I almost did not attend a thanksgiving dinner tonight. And it was not because of the food. I detest turkey dinners. But, I go because I like socializing with people who have backgrounds different than mine.
This year, those differences were starting to boil over in some very peculiar ways. Everyone knows President Trump has taken some rather strong positions concerning Canada on defense spending and trade issues. To be kind, some of his comments have been insulting. And a lot of my Canadian friends have taken it personally.
I cannot say I really understand the feelings. For the past 70 years of my life, lots of people have attacked The States in language that was every bit as personal. I let it slip off as background noise. Americans are accustomed to it.
I do not question the authenticity of Canadian outrage. But I have been shocked at how the attacks in reverse have been directed at individual Americans. Me included.
When the issue of Canada's managed dairy, egg, and chicken market came up during the NAFTA negotiations, I sought out a Canadian friend to discuss the intricacies of the policies. I thought it was fascinating that a president who had made protectionism a central part of his trade policy would see the economic weaknesses of the Canadian system.
My attempt at initiating that conversation did not get past the first sentence. When I asked my friend if he knew about the Canadian managed dairy system, he said he did. But, he was opposed to any change if Trump had proposed it. When I asked if there might be an economic case for reform that would enrich Canadian consumers, he said: "I don't care. If Trump is for it, I'm against it."
There was much about the Bush-Obama administrations I did not like. But I was always willing to discuss policies based on their merits and not on who had proposed the policy.
But, that is not where our common discourse lies. Politicians have personalized almost everything in public life, and what was public has now become politicized. In the process, dinner guests are left strolling over live hand grenades with each course.
And I did not want to spend another evening waiting for someone (possibly me) to explode into emotional rancor.
Instead of being a social coward, I braced myself and went to dinner.
Nothing happened. Well, nothing bad happened.
We all had a good time talking about almost every possible topic except politics. Canadians are experts at being nice -- about being polite enough not to bother with the truth when a bit of social shine will suffice instead.
It worked perfectly. There was none of the stilted conversation that hides unstated truths. Instead, Americans, Canadians, Mexicans, Swiss all behaved as perfect dinner guests celebrating the world of things for which we have to be thankful.
I am particularly thankful for being able to live in Mexico where I can occasionally horn in on another culture's holiday. So, to my hosts, my friends and acquaintances in our exotic expatriate world, Nicole (a reader who I finally met in person tonight), and the always efficient and friendly staff of Papa Gallo's, I thank you for a great night and an even better coming year.
"The more I travel, the more I discover that people everywhere are the same."
I cannot recall for certain the first time I heard someone say that. I think it was at a Rotary meeting in Oak Grove. One of our members had just returned from southern Africa and was relaying his experiences.
It was, of course, twaddle. People everywhere are not the same. They, like Anna Karenina, may all want to live in the sameness of happy families, as Tolstoy would have it. But, in almost every way possible, individuals everywhere are definitely not the same. Or else they would not be individuals.
Good grief! I was not the same as the guy who uttered that trite tidbit. And he was happier for it.
Earlier this morning I was up earlier than usual. Omar asked me to drive him to work. (His motorcycle has a gas tank problem.) On the way back to Barra de Navidad from San Patricio, I was greeted by one of those gossamer moments that are there -- then gone.
The sun was just just checking in for work, and the moon was late getting home. With just a sliver of the sun's light reflecting from its rim, the moon looked like one of those rogue fingernail clippings you step on in the dark. All set in subtle pinks and yellows.
I was in a rush to get back to the house to read the newspaper before heading off to church. But, I could not pass by that moment without hesitating. Or stopping. In the vain hope of capturing it for you. The photograph does not do it justice.
While I stood there watching it all fade away into dementia, I thought: "I am standing here experiencing something everyone in the world is experiencing."
Well, I thought that until I came to my senses. People in Australia, where it is tomorrow afternoon, have no idea what I was watching. And even nearby Mexico City did not have a "Do You See What I See?" moment. Some things in life are simply narcissistic. They are for us. And us alone. No one else will experience them quite the same.
Or, as Sondheim (as he often does), so succinctly puts it:
"Best to take the moment present As a present for the moment."
I wish you could have been there this morning with me. But, had you been, our experiences would have been just as different from each other's as the photograph is different from my memory.
People everywhere are not the same. And we can be glad for it.
No one could look at the tragic results of last Friday's one-two earthquake-tsunami combination on that Indonesian city without feeling deep remorse.and a sense of complete powerlessness. It eclipses the tragedy that is world politics.
But the facts sounded very familiar. Palu sits on the edge of a bay on a narrow strip of alluvial flood plain backing up onto coastal mountains.
When the 7.5 earthquake struck, it liquefied large portions of the alluvial soil the city sat on. If you recall what happened to the Marina district in San Francisco during the 1989 world series earthquake, you know exactly what happened. In the case of Palu, entire neighborhoods disappeared into the quicksand. Houses. Possessions. Cars. Livestock. Pets. And, most importantly, people. Often full families clutching onto one for their last moment of comfort. Sucked into the maw of the recently-quaked earth.
But there was worse to come. Within 11 minutes of the earthquake, a devastating tsunami rushed down Palu's triangular bay. In places, the wave was 20 feet high. At an almost-incredible 800 kilometers per hour. For those of us who are Celsius-impaired, that is almost 500 miles per hour.
The experts are a bit perplexed at the intensity of the tsunami. The epicenter of the earthquake was on land. Usually, that means the risk of a tsunami is low. Something else must have happened. Such as, an underground landslide. The triangular shape of Palu's bay is also a culprit -- funneling the full force of the tsunami toward the city. Or maybe it was both. Or something else.
What no one can doubt is that large portions of Palu and several of the surrounding villages have been flattened or simply eaten by the earth. And rescue efforts have been hampered due to the damage to already-inadequate infrastructure.
Here is the eerie part. Other than the size of Palu (over 300,000), the description of that area of the island of Sulawesi is far too familiar. If our villages surrounding Navidad Bay were put in a lineup with Palu, they would be easily subject to misidentification.
Our villages sit on alluvial soil. A small strip of flat land between the sea and the coastal mountains. If subjected directly to a 7.5 earthquake, large portions of our area would likely open like Palu.
But, you say, Jalisco state has a fancy tsunami warning system that looks retro enough to be featured in The Jetsons. So did Palu. Actually, a buoy warning system. But it was not working due to maintenance issues. And I will let you guess what the common knowledge is about our own warning system.
Indonesia had a tsunami warning system in place through cell phone notifications. But, the earthquake hushed it because most of the cell towers were toppled.
In the case of Palu, it would not have mattered much. The ground was impassable in large parts of the city. Plus the tsunami arrived so quickly after the quake.
Tragedies elsewhere can center our minds. And centering one's mind does not mean reducing yourself to a pool of tragedy-induced hysteria -- something we have witnessed far too much of recently.
Tragedy needs perspective. Is there an earthquake and tsunami danger living in our villages by the bay? Of course, there is.
And, in circumstances similar to those of Palu, the tragedy could be re-enacted here. I have written before how isolated our villages are. There is only one north-south highway and another that eventually leads to Guadalajara. If both are cut off with earthquake damage, getting medical supplies (something that is a daily problem already) and other life necessities will be a problem.
But we all live with imminent death every day. Almost every place I have lived in the world has a severe earthquake risk. Oregon may top the list with the pressure building on the fault off its Pacific coast. We learn to live with it.
If you are someone who lives life by reading State Department warnings, you might not feel comfortable living here. A place that could, just as easily as Palu, induce sympathy and empathy around the world.
An earthquake could easily happen here. That map of earthquakes since 1997 is a potential predictor that a Big One is in our future. If it is, I have a plan.
Trying to drive away would be a fool's mission for most of us. Too few roads clogged with frightened crowds -- and most of those routes leading to no safety at all.
I have no high ground near my house. At least, not within running distance. What I do have is a three-story residence. I will climb to the top, lash myself to the wheel of the Titanic like Captain Smith, and hum my own version of "Nearer My God to Thee."
And, like most plans, this one will never have to be put into effect during my lifetime.
He is one of my favorite contemporary novelists -- writing books that strive for literary heights, unlike the schlock mill run by his fellow lawyer-writer John Grisham. There is a reason why readers often refer to him as F. Scott Turow.
Ironically, I was introduced to his writing by the Hollywood adaptation of his first novel -- Presumed Innocent. The movie was so compelling, I stopped by WaldenBooks and purchased the book. I have not looked back.
In nine novels, he has created a literary milieu of his fictional Kindle County (easily mistaken for Chicago's Cook County) written as rich as Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County. Grisham writes page-turners. Turow writes thought-provokers.
At least, I thought it was nine novels. And I thought it was odd that Turow had not written anything since 2013's Identical.
But, I was wrong. Somehow I had missed the publication of Testimony last year.
I regret nothing in life. What's the point? It is just wasted energy. But I do miss the library I spent five decades collecting. 98% of it went to Goodwill when I sold the Salem house.
Bit by bit, I intend to build a new collection in the house with no name. So, I ordered a hard copy of Testimony from Amazon.
Who else writing today can provide such simple sentences larded with significance? Like this one.
"Life, of course, is full of people you like a lot and then never see again. It's one of the tragedies of going around only once."
Or this.
The central character has been hired as a prosecutor for the International Court of Justice in The Hague. After a couple of months in The Netherlands, he returns to Kindle County.
"Being back made me recognize how persistent my sense of foreignness had been in The Hague, where I knew from waking to sleeping that layers of meaning lay in virtually every word and gesture that were simply beyond me. The contrasting realization that I no longer lived in the Tri-Cities left me feeling off balance at all times."
Any expatriate knows that feeling. I know I do. Especially during my first eight years of living here permanently. Ironically, even though I often still feel wrong-footed here, I feel even more that way when I fly north to visit my friends and family. I am a stranger in a strange land.
There may be an essay in there somewhere. But not today.
Yesterday, I was sitting by the pool (just starting chapter 3 of Testimony) when the pool man, Antonio, arrived. With his assistant. After retrieving a glass of ice water for each of them, I returned to my novel.
Antonio's assistant, who I know well from past conversations, but not well enough to recall his name, kept staring at my book. He has seen me reading before, but usually with my Kindle in hand.
I could tell he wanted to ask me something, so I put down the book.
"How many books do you read?"
I was pleased with the question. I do not think anyone here has ever mentioned a book to me. With one exception. When Omar moved in, he was not only astounded I had a room in my house called the library, but that the room was partially-populated with books.
"One or two a week," I gushed.
He looked astonished. "Each year?"
"No. Each week. I also read two newspapers each day and two magazines each week."
He stood there looking at me as if fairies were dancing on my head.
I asked him about his reading habits. It turns out he graduated from high school and enjoys working with computers, but he has never read a book. He is probably in his mid-20s.
"Even in school?"
"No. Just workbooks."
That answer is consistent with what I hear from Omar, who has never read a full book. Teachers here read from textbooks to the students. The students take notes and then work out problems in their workbooks. It is an ancient teaching tradition, but one that has fallen into great disfavor around the world.
But it does help to explain Mexico's abysmal scores on the international PISA (Program for International Student Assessment) test (taking AMLO to school). At least, this part of Mexico.
I cannot recall seeing anyone (young or old) sitting in our local jardin reading a book. That is not true of all Mexico. I regularly see readers in Guadalajara and Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende and Mexico City. Places that even have book stores. So, some Mexicans do seem to enjoy recreational reading.
Not here. Most of my young friends look at me the same way Antonio's assistant did when I tell them I am going to spend the afternoon reading. If I add I am also going to use a couple of hours writing an essay, I may as well tell them I am going to sprout wings and fly to the moon in my bedclothes.
Now, I know that reading is not some social talisman. But, it is an indication of a sense of curiosity -- a desire to know something outside of ourselves and our experience. Without that tool, a gift from my mother and grandmother when I was 4, there is a lot of what I now know of the world that would have remained a stranger to me without books. And there is still so much to experience.
If there is one thing I do miss in this area, it is having a group of friends gathering to share some of the interesting things they have read recently. I get a bit of that from my Bible study group, but there is nothing like sharing a pot of jamaica tea with people you know well enough to discuss the vagaries and musings of Wittgenstein or Turow.
For now, I will be happy to stretch out in the sun reading about the intricacies of the International Court of Justice while sharing a pot of tea with myself.
