senior señor

We all react to age in different ways.


I take the denial route.  Each morning in the mirror I see a 22-year old Steve.  The same Steve who seems to operate the attitude controls in the cockpit of my head.


That attitude makes some of my other observations a bit disconcerting.  Like when I balance myself while climbing down from chairs.  Or when I try to run and find my body about a half block behind my mind.


But those variegations in my life are easily reconciled.  I usually just ignore that they exist.


Until yesterday morning.  I decided to take the shuttle bus from Salem to Bend to visit my mother and brother.  When I got to the front of the line to buy my ticket, I said, “One adult.  One way.  Bend.”  The clerk looked me straight in the face and asked: “Senior?”


Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with the question.  After all, by some standards, I am a senior.  AARP has tried to include me in joining them at the trough of government benefits for well over a decade.  Even though I do not yet qualify for the more traditional 65+ category.  At least, for a few years.


Even so, it is a bit jarring to hear the first time.  Doubly so because I have long been agnostic about senior discounts.  The reasons are not important.  Suffice it to say I do not use them.


This time, I did, though.  To have declined the offer would have seemed a bit mean spirited on my part.  After all, the clerk had no trouble seeing that my brain may not have developed past 22, but the rest of me has been showing the mileage for years.


Who knows?  When it is time for me to head back over the Cascades, I may sidle up to the ticket counter, identify myself as a senior, and nap all the way back to Salem.


After all, nothing says senior like a good nap.

falling off the electronic wagon

My name is Steve.  And I am an electronics addict.


Several years ago I surrendered in the electronics wars.  Before then, I was what the trade calls “an early adopter.”  If there was a new gadget about to be released I was at the front of the line to buy the latest toy.


Somewhere along the line, though, all of those big-screen televisions, laser disc players, DVDs, CD players, PDAs, and Blackberries lost their allure.  I tied a low-tech pocket silk to my Mont Blanc fountain pen -- and left the battlefield.


Moving to Mexico helped.  Electronics tended to be rare and expensive.  But during the past year, market forces and middle class aspirations have made some electronic gear plentiful and affordable.  A trip through the high definition television aisle in any Mexico Costco bears out the evolution.


But what I shunned in Mexico is exactly what I fell prey to in Oregon. 


One of my first stops when I came up here was Fry’s Electronics.  To men, Fry’s is as seductive as shoe stores are to some women.  I could -- and did -- spend hours.  Just looking at the new gadgets.


I made the mistake of some recovering addicts.  I thought looking would not be a problem.  And there was no reason that it should have mattered.


However, one item called out to me.  A Z series Sony Vaio notebook.  When I moved to Mexico, I took my first Z series notebook with me.  You may recall how much I loved that computer.  It was sleek and light.  My constant companion on trips around the village.


But such love burns bright -- and brief.  At the time, I lived on the beach.  The wind would bring brine into the house.  Sensitive electronics and salt water are a volatile mixture.  Within four months I had a dead computer on my hands.


I no longer live on the beach.  And Sony has produced its second generation of notebooks.  Lighter.  Sexier.  And for a price that is almost six months of rent at my duplex.


But I gave into the siren call yesterday.  I will not bore you with the specifications.  Let’s just say that will meet all of my walkabout blogging needs when I get back to Mexico -- and in Red China.


Later today I head over to Bend to talk with my brother the computer expert -- to divide up some tasks between the new notebook and my old lap top.


He can also counsel me on giving in to these urges. 

cheap chips

I love modern conveniences -- except when they aren’t.


The first week I was in Oregon, I threw a light load of laundry into my washing machine.  When I pulled out the clothes, they were as wet as pool cleanup towels.  Sopping.


I have been around washing machines long enough to diagnose the problem.  Something was amiss with the spin cycle -- either a belt, a clutch or a gear.  I felt smug in my acquired knowledge.


Until the repairman arrived.


I had forgotten this was the computer age.  The repairman informed me the equivalent of the washer’s motherboard was dead.  Maytag seems to have an engineering defect.  So much for the lonely repairman image.


He installed a used board, ordered a new one, and I was ready to finish up my laundry.  A few days later, he returned to install the new part.


$425.95 (US) later, I was back in the laundry business.


Having lived in Mexico for the past three years, the bill astounded me.  For one-tenth of that, a local repairman in Melaque would fully overhaul the washer.  Of course, the washing machine would operate on pure mechanical power rather than enough computer memory to run the Apollo program.


The comparison is a bit academic, though.  I do not use the washing machine at my duplex in Melaque.  I rely on the services of my local laundress with her own bank of washing machines and dryers.


And for what it cost me to repair my washer in Oregon, I could have Anita wash about 106 loads.  Almost nine years of dirty shirts that she returns to me folded, bagged, and smelling like my grandmother’s sachet drawer.


That is a modern convenience I can live with.

cut scenes

I love movies. 


But you know that already from my posts about Netflix in Mexico.


I reopened my Netflix account in the hope that I could find new and classic films to watch at home.  But Latin America Netflix was a bust.  A limited inventory with quirky offerings. 


So limited, I almost cancelled my subscription.  Instead, I fooled the internet system into believing I was somewhere in The States.


Otherwise, I was left to the offerings that show up at the Manzanillo multi-screen theater with its modern stadium seating and rather primitive sound system -- showing primarily American blockbusters.


My visit to Oregon has reminded me how much I miss good films with high projection quality and outstanding speaker systems.


The monarch of cinemas, of course, are the IMAX theaters with their crystal clear pictures and pristine sound.  So far, we have been to two different IMAX theaters.  That is me, in the midst of the theater, watching the credits roll by.  I almost felt like an executive at an editing session.


I doubt I will ever get the same feeling in Manzanillo.

rockabye kindle

I have a new Kindle baby.


I have been a member of the Kindle family since July of 2010 -- when I decided to buy the second generation Kindle reader to feed my book jonesing in Mexico.


And a good buy it was.  I have been able to purchase books electronically as soon as they are available -- or to find editions that are no longer in book stores. 


That is, assuming that the book is available on Kindle.  Now and then I have been frustrated that both new and old editions are not available electronically.  But, overall, the experience has been great.


I have had only one problem with my Kindle.  The letters on the tiny keyboard are starting to rub off.  I don’t know if my fingers are the culprits -- or if the letters are rubbing on the cover when it is closed.  Either way, I am starting to play a game of “guess the letter.”


But Amazon has come to my rescue.  Just before Christmas Amazon issued two new Kindles.  A touch version -- where all navigation is done on the screen.  And a Fire -- a small backlit tablet designed to take on the iPad.


I was almost seduced by the Fire.  It is nearly as sexy as the iPad.  But the backlit screen makes it impractical for reading in the Mexican sun.


So, I bought the touch version.  I like the touch commands.  But I need to learn how best to navigate.  The shortcuts I learned on my old Kindle are not as intuitive.  I suspect all of that will change over time.


One thing I have discovered is that I enjoy reading on the Kindle.  I thought I would miss the feel of the books.  If I do, it has been eclipsed by the Kindle’s light weight and the convenience of buying books whenever the mood hits me.


Here is a sampling of my reading for 2011 -- several of which  I have reviewed in posts during the year.

American Emperor: Aaron Burr’s Challenge to Jefferson’s America by David O. Stewart
 

Sondheim on Music: Minor Details and Major Decisions by Mark Eden Horowitz

New Light on the Difficult Words of Jesus: Insights from His Jewish Context by David Bivin

: 

1493: Uncovering the World Columbus Created by Charles C. Mann

The Hebrew Yeshua vs. the Greek Jesus by Nehemia Gordon

1491 (Second Edition): New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus by Charles C. Mann

A World on Fire: Britain's Crucial Role in the American Civil War by Amanda Foreman

In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler's Berlin by Erik Larson

Manana Forever? by Jorge G. Castaneda

Restoring The Jewishness of the Gospel: A Message for Christians Condensed from Messianic Judaism  by David H. Stern

Ballistics: Poems by Billy Collins

Traitor to His Class: The Privileged Life and Radical Presidency of FDR by H. W. Brands and Mark Deakins


You can tell a lot about people by what they read.  I have looked at several book lists posted by fellow bloggers and realized that we each read entirely different books.  That sounds like a great strength to me.  Especially if we are willing to share what we have read.


So, what was on your 2011 book list?

death in the family

My village is in turmoil.  There has been a murder in the family.


Whenever violence visits, facts get a bit muddled.  There are plenty of rumors, but this much is generally accepted as being factual.


Robin Wood was a 67-year old Canadian from Salt Spring Island – one of the spots my sailing buddies and I visit during our summer excursions to British Columbia.  He came south to vacation with a Canadian realtor.


Two young men came over the roof of the realtor’s home in Villa Obregon.  They appeared to be intent on robbery, other than mere burglary, because one arrived armed with a pistol.


One robber grabbed a bag.  Mr. Wood resisted.  The armed robber shot him.  Mr. Wood died before his host could get him to the hospital in Cihuatlán – about 15 minutes away. 


A very sad tale (undoubtedly, where we know little of what actually happened).  And one that could – and does – happen in large and small towns around the world.


I have been monitoring the reaction of the tourist and expatriate communities on the Melaque electronic message board – TomZap.  And I am a bit surprised at what I have been reading.


There are the usual (and appropriate) sympathy wishes for Mr. Wood’s family.  But those entries are dwarfed by the number of people who say they are evacuating Melaque because of the incident.


At times like these, logic is not a sought handmaiden.  As far as I know, very few people talked about shunning Melaque when three young men died during the past three years in allegedly drug-related assassinations.  Or when any of the local love triangle murders happened.


The difference, of course, is the unstated.  Those deaths involved locals.  This death was one of us.


And I am not talking about skin color.  I will leave that topic for someone who wants to beat the tom-tom of tribalism that lurks in some of the TomZap posts.


For too long, visitors to Melaque have idealized it as a paradise.  It isn’t.  If it is Eden, the serpent of reality has long been coiled there.


Part of that reality is that a small portion of the local community, just like any community, is composed of thieves.  The bars on our windows and doors are not merely quaint architectural artifacts of the Spanish occupation.


To our neighbors, we are part of the world’s wealthy ruling class.  With our bottomless ATM accounts, fancy computers, and café lifestyles.  To the thieves, we are targets as lucrative as any Mexican CEO.


Does that make this murder is our fault?  Of course, not.  We will undoubtedly eventually discover some fact that results in an aha moment.  There is simply a risk that comes along with our worship of material goods.


Unfortunately, for Robin Wood, he evidenced that love far too clearly when he reflexively (but not reflectively) grabbed for a bag that was no longer his.  And paid for it with his life.


I hope the murderers are caught.  I hope justice is done.  But leaving Melaque will not accomplish any of those ends.


I am not leaving.  In fact, I will soon be flying back home to Melaque in a few days.  And I intend to bring as many people as I can.

     

taking out the trash

Tuesday is trash day on my street in Salem.


That means that I need to remember to take out the green compost container and the gray trash container on Monday night.  And the blue recycling container every other week.


It is even a bit more complex than that.  There are some additional baskets for glass and other objects.  I know nothing about those baskets.  After three containers, my recycling mood started channeling Mr. Burns from The Simpsons:  “Yes, well, it does sound delightful! I can't wait to start pawing through my garbage like some starving raccoon!”


Our relationship with our garbage adds a bottom to cultures.


We Oregonians do not hide our rather neurotic holier (or, at least. greener) than thou attitude when it comes to recycling.  A Freudian would undoubtedly diagnose the condition as anal retentive.  Lots of neat little piles that eventually end up in a big hole in the ground.


My Mexican neighbors tend to live on the other extreme.  Garbage collection can vary regionally far more than cuisines. 


In Pátzcuaro, the garbage truck seems to arrive on some sort of astral schedule.  (At least, I could never divine any regularity in the truck’s appearance.)  When I filled a trash bag, I had to wait for the sound of the tell-tale cow bell -- and then dash like Jesse Owens to hand off the bag and a gratuity to the trash hauler.


Garbage in  Melaque is a bit simpler.  Whenever I have a full trash bag, I simply put it in the raised brazier in front of my gate.  The truck will pick it up on one of its regular routes -- five days a week.  Efficient and simple.  No pretense of recycling.


As I watched the Salem garbage men arrive in their separate trucks this morning to empty out the color-coded containers and baskets, I started to think about whether I preferred the Melaque or the Salem version.  And then realized it was a silly question.


Both systems work well within their own context.


And that may just be another hint about my own life.