borg bees

It fell from outer space.  Like a piece of orbiting Russotrash.

There it was in the middle of my garden path.  Big.  Dirty.  Alien.  Larger than a man's head.   Even mine.

I suppose it could have been worse.  It could have fallen to earth while I was heading down the garden path (I knew you were just waiting to hear that) and Wicked-Witch-of-the-East'ed me.

There it sat.  Just waiting for a curious hand to come examine it.  That would be me with my curious hand in the air.

And examine it I did.  Apparently, forgetting just over two years ago, a similar apparition crashed to the ground on my patio (out of the blue).  I should have remembered to show a bit more caution than I did.

I grabbed one of the sticks.  After all, the sticks looked utilitarian enough.  As if they were purposely placed to allow the mass to be easily turned for close inspection by a 12-year old mind.

While I was turning my find, I noticed a black fly land on my right elbow.  "Great!," I thought.  This thing is filled with maggots.

Then another fly.  And another.  And another.  Each of them seemed to be quite intent on trying to do something to my arm.  And then I felt something like a sting to the back of my arm.

It was at that point, I realized there were probably fifty or so "flies" on my arms, legs, shirt, and shorts.  Then it hit me, I had just disturbed the home of a social collective.  A bunch of commie bees had targeted me for their fall from grace -- or the mango tree. 

Assimilation was not their goal, stinging was.  In my, case resistance was not futile.

I dashed off with more bees in pursuit, brushing off the ones I could see.  Ran into the house, stripping all the way.  And jumped into the shower.

The mopping-up operation took a bit longer.  Quite a few bees had followed me into the house.  But a bit of grit, determination, and Raid left the place bee-free.

I have an acquaintance down here by the name of John.  He showed me a nest of black bees that had a powerful sting.  All I could think of was how lucky I was to be stung only once.

I told my land lady of the danger in the garden, and she called Civil Protection to relieve us of the nuisance.  But, before they arrived, Esteban the Gardener showed up to do his hosing.

I warned him about the bees.  When he looked at the hive, he told me these bees do not sting (no pica).  When I showed him my one sting, he shrugged as if I was whining that I could only find 12-grain bread when I wanted 7-grain.

But I trusted him.  As a rule, almost everything in nature is a potential danger to him and needs to be dispatched as quickly as possible.  Snakes.  Spiders.  Caterpillars. 

I needed to weigh that against the fact that this is the same guy who left a scorpion crawling on his arm so I could see it, and who brought me a nasty-looking yellow and red hornet (in his hands) that has just stung him.

I opted for trust.  His plan had the advantage of simplicity.  I would spray Raid into the hole of the nest (that meant I needed to get my head right over the top of the territory that had just invaded my arm).  When I thought we had sufficiently anesthetized the occupants of the nest, Esteban would pick up the whole mess by its handy handles and carry it to the laguna.

It worked like a charm.  Of course, Esteban has once again confirmed that I am just another northern hysteric who has yet to come to grips with nature.

I was about to say he may be correct. Until evening rolled around.

I almost forgot I had promised my friends Vern and Elke I would attend the grand opening of Ambar (our local French restaurant) in a new venue.  The promise predated swearing off eating in restaurants.

And I am glad I went.  The setting is perfect.  The staff was turned out in chic black -- as were some of the patrons.  All looking quite elegant for our little bay.

There is something about a good restaurant filled with well-dressed life-loving patrons that warms the heart.  Several years ago, I was talking with the maitre d' at Maxim's.  In a sweeping gesture with his hand (something the French seem to do naturally), he drew my attention to the full dining room and said: "Doesn't she look lovely tonight?"

I felt the same way about Ambar last night.  Everything had pulled together during the day in this wonderful evening.

Yes, Georges, she does look lovely tonight.

my cheesy past

OK.  Enough of this "it's a good day to die" talk.

Let's talk, instead, about one of my favorite Mexican topics -- relationships.

Last August in is he a cypriot -- or merely a cretan?, I bemoaned the fact that I could not find halloumi cheese in Melaque.  Not that I expected I could.  It was almost impossible to find in Salem.

It is one of those cheeses beloved of both foodies and vegetarians --mainly because of its versatility.  Even the healthitarians sing its praises.

But it was not to be found in my little fishing village by the sea. Nor in the gringo food treasure house of San Miguel de Allende.  (I will confess that my search in the highlands was as about as shallow as a Justin Bieber essay on the Holocaust.)

Even my brother got into the act. He talked a local cheesemaker in Bend to take a stab at making some for my Thanksgiving visit. Blessed are the cheesemakers.  And kindly brothers.

That will be weeks away.  But I need crave no more.  Anna, who comments here from time to time, lives a couple of blocks from my place.  We share the same laguna shore.

I should say she and her husband live in Villa Obregon in the winter.  In the summer, they live in British Columbia.

The two of them just arrived in town after a pleasant drive down only to discover that our neighborhood's power was out for the day.  But one of the first things she did was to send me an email, while I was waiting for my dental appointment, to let me know she had brought something from Canada for me.

I had no idea what.  Of course, you do.  Because you can see where this story is going.  And you can also read labels in photographs.

A pack of halloumi cheese.  That is it.  Sitting in the midst of the chorus line of vegetables that were to become tonight's salad and stir fry.

Thanks a lot, Anna.  I will prepare a spinach salad with halloumi in your honor later this week.  I guess that will be tomorrow.

And even though I was not going to talk any more about matters of the heart, I  will let you know I am serious about getting back into the kitchen.  Here is my proof.

Thursday night's dinner.  A stir fry of vegetables, chicken, and a greatly modified hoisin sauce over a small serving of penne pasta.  And what I call a summer salad -- tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions with a drizzle of rice vinegar, sprinkled with basil and oregano.

This is the type of meal I ate when I first moved to Villa Obregon.  It is about time that my past got back to the future.
     

everything on black

I wish I were a betting man. 

No.  That's not right.  What I wish is that I could find someone to take my bets.  Like trivia based on events in the Punic Wars.

And here is why.

I told you yesterday I tried to convince my doctor to bet that I could guess my triglyceride number.  Being a professional, she demurred.  It is a wise woman who knows her limitations.

And I know mine.

First thing yesterday morning, I walked to the laboratory to pick up the results of my blood test.  And because I do not need the PriceWaterhouse accountants to deliver the tally, I opened the envelope on my own.

And the winner of Supporting Actor in a High Number Lifestyle is -- Steve Cotton.  I had guessed my triglyceride number to the digit.  If it had been a year, the fall of Rome would have been a mere 26 years away.  You do the math.

On the brighter side, my cholesterol numbers were disappointingly low.  But my cholesterol has always been an underachiever when it comes to health warnings.

My doctor was not as pleased with my prognostic talent.  "Shocked" seems to be the right word.

And not the Captain Renault "shocked" of "I'm shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here."  Hers was more like the shock of an American worker opening her year-end IRA statement in 2008.

It was the same look many a teacher has given me over the years -- preceding the "We expect more of you" lecture.

So, I was braced.  I could see the Big Three gathering in a thunder cloud above her head.  But I forgot the "This is why high triglycerides are dangerous" lecture.

I have heard it before.  And she was correct to be concerned.  My triglycerides were high enough that I could sell my blood to Pemex to fill its production gap.  My last doctor told me I should not stand near an open flame -- for fear I would go up like an old tire dump.

Hearing alarming news from a female doctor is somewhat reassuring.  The dangers pass by quickly to be replaced by a coda of hope and promise.

Instead of the exercise-weight-diet recitation I was expecting, she prescribed a magic medication (clopidogrel) to reduce my blood fat.  Fast.  She wants a followup blood test in two days.

Whew!  Said I.  That was easy.  Bless the American drug companies.

But she was not done.  My weight?  Not a big deal.  Exercise?  None.  Well, not just yet.  She needs to see some of my test scores decline before I start training for the next Iron Man event.

Good, so far.  But then the third shoe dropped.  Diet.  Food is dearer to me than almost anything else in life.  And thus began the list of don'ts.

No bread.  No tortillas.  No carbohydrates.  No fat.  No eggs.

So, you ask: What's left?  I did.

Well, leafy vegetables.  That is a phrase doctors use thinking they can confuse us into believing we get to eat some form of exotic food, when they are really taking about lettuce.  Or Spinach.  Or cabbage.  Or, in Mexico, nopale.

You can imagine my joy at that news.  I have not eaten a salad as my sole dinner item in years.

I have an easier answer.  I will abandon Melaque's café society, and return to my wok.  Plenty of stir-fry vegetables with the occasional picking from a chicken carcass.

At one point, I am certain I was told I had a positive test for Dengue antibodies.  Meaning I had been exposed to the virus without suffering any of the nasty symptoms. 

But I was not certain.  So, I asked Beny at the lab to run a test.

It came back negative.  I was a bit disappointed.  That means I am still vulnerable to all four strains of Dengue fever that are transported from human to human through the saliva of Aedes aegypti -- one of our more common mosquitoes.

That matters because my ankles currently have 20 to 30 bites -- mostly from mosquitoes.  When Dra. Rosa saw the bites, she showed more concern than she showed about my triglycerides.

For good reason.  She told me that Dengue fever is once again making its way through our community.  A young man, stricken with a dose, was leaving her office when I arrived.

Now, there is a bit of irony weaving its way into another sardonic observation.  I have long been convinced that I would be pushed under the heart disease bus.  Now that is is a real possibility, I could just as easily fall prey to a virus and its sidekick vector.

Who says God does not have a sense of humor?

come walk with me

Scores of movie scenes populate the hard drive in my head -- every one of them making up part of who I am.

One of my favorites is from the 1966-1967 Soviet-made War and Peace.  I can still see Pierre Bezukhov and his friend, Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, outfitted in top hats and flowing great coats, walking along a road of Lombardy poplars -- with the road and trees meeting the horizon of the flat Russian steppes.

Of course, they are discussing philosophy.  Tolstoy's philosophy -- that he liberally spreads throughout the dialog of his favorite characters.  Or, at least, his flawed noble characters.

That scene epitomizes friendship.  Being able to walk with a friend and discuss the deepest questions of our existence.

Well, I would like to do that. With you.  We may have to forgo the top hats, great coats, and philosophical questions.  And the poplars. Don't have any of those.

But walk with me in my neighborhood.  As my friend.

You should recognize my courtyard at the top.  The morning shadows always intrigue me.  Everything is so stark.  Even the hummingbirds -- the least subtle of birds -- invite us to an out-the-door experience.

The street that runs in front of my house is not going to show up on a travel brochure.  And that is fine with me.  It is populated with people, who my friends up north would call poor.  But they would be wrong.

My neighbors have jobs.  Sometimes, sporadic.  But jobs.  A place to get out of the elements.  Food to fill their bellies.  Televisions.  Mobile telephones.  Vehicles.  And the occasional washing machine.

At the first corner, we turn left into a street with some of our finer things in Villa Obregon life.  Restaurants.  Small grocery stores.  Family-run hotels.  It is the street of an emerged middle class.

The next corner, we turn right onto an rather non-descript street -- home to a school yard, houses, and an apartment building.  Not to  mention, the home of the newlyweds Steve and Olivia McManus, who we congratulated in yesterday's post.

And, on the corner, one of my favorite seafood restaurants.  The Red Lobster.  Not the north-of-the-border franchise with its surly service, indifferent food, and startling prices.

This is a one-off establishment.  A family restaurant.  And they are spiffing up the place with a reconstructed palm frond awning for the coming onslaught of northern diners.

As we continue on,you may think we have just entered the Champs-Élysées -- with its elegant wide boulevards, landscaped division strips, and antique street lights.  But it is just one (can be read as "few")of Villa Obregon's better pieces of infrastructure.  And one of my favorite places to walk.

To keep everything in perspective, if you look to the right at the first corner, this is what you will see.

I  call it not-quite-Paris.  But-almost-Venice.

Near that corner is the coffee shop of Ben and Alexa -- two young members of our church congregation.  La Taza Negra.  The shop is not open yet.  And there is a story there.  That I will tell soon.

Our final destination was going to be my doctor's office.  Dra. Rosa -- my personal physician since I arrived in Mexico.

You may have noted in several of my posts that our area has suffered a series of personal property thefts.  One of those thefts was the propane gas cylinder from the kitchen at the Indian school. 

I am not certain what type of person steals equipment from the poorest of the poor -- leaving them without cooked food.  But it happened.

I had come to set that matter right.  After we completed our transcation, I mentioned my Friday morning irregular heart beat (death taps lightly).  She suggested an EKG in her office.  Fine, said I.

The results?  It appears I have suffered some form of heart attack in the past.  The EKG shows the tell-tale spike of an area of the heart that is firing blanks instead of current.

As most of you know, there is no certain way of knowing when such an event occurred or why.  There is an EKG in my medical file (which may or may not be mine) from 2009 showing the same abnormality.  To add insult to my new0found injury, my blood pressure was worryingly high.

Dra. Rosa sent me off to the lab to check my cholesterol and triglycerides.  I told her I already knew they were high.  She asked how high.  I responded -- somewhere between cardiac arrest on the low side and cerebral hemorrhage on the high side. 

She was unwilling to take the favorable odds I offered her in slapping pesos on the table concerning the results.

So, tomorrow morning I will be lab bound to pickup the results and take them to Dra. Rosa.

You may be wondering why I have, to use my newspaper jargon, buried the story.  Because I know what well-meaning and proper advice she is going to give me.  As will the rest of you.

The holy trinity of all physical maladies human.  Lose weight.  Get more exercise.  Eat right. 

Oh, yes, there will be some talk about additional medicine that will enter the conversation.  A conversation that is not new on these pages. (dew, docs, and dusk).

I talked to my brother and mother yesterday afternoon.  This is not the news they should first read in my blog.  Neither of them slipped into the usual list of don'ts and chatter of limitation.  Instead, my brother and I spent more time discussing our participation in the Baja 1000 in just over a week.

I haven't told you about that?  Well,that is another walk we will need to take.

Soon.
 

 

riots in the street

That is what I would have written if my expectations had been met yesterday.  Angered citizens rising in protest against the tyranny of crime.

But that is not how the day began.  Instead, it began in farce.

I was waiting around the house for the appearance of repairmen.  The screen door closer had died some months back. 

Instead of closing the screen door in an orderly fashion, it would slam into whoever was trying to go through the opening -- and would then stay open long enough for a couple of generations of mosquitoes to  migrate from outside to inside.  Not much screening was being done.

The task merely meant replacing the pneumatic controller.  I could have done it.  But my land lady has a troop of skilled workers that prevent her renters from doubling repair costs with DIY projects.

I was lying on the bed (mind you, I was awake -- and not in bed) when the bell for the front gate rang.  Rather than grab all of my clothing, I streaked to the gate and let the honcho in -- showing him through the apartment to the back door.  His assistant followed about 10 seconds later with the tools.

As I turned to check on the second guy, he started yelling: "Alacrán!  Alacrán!"

Now, my Spanish is not excellent, by anyone's definition.  But alacrán, I know.  He seemed to be a bit over-dramatic.  After all, scorpions are as common here as -- well, scorpions.  He was, perhaps, even a bit girly in his personal alarm.

Then, I noticed why he was so concerned.  I never (well, hardly ever) walk around without wearing my sandals.  That tan line is a dead giveaway.

But, in my rush to get to the gate, I ran out of the bedroom barefooted -- and right over the path where he found the scorpion.  Twice.  He was not concerned about his personal safety.  He was concerned about mine.

I turned and sprinted across the living room.  Well, "sprinted" in the way that a gimpy fat guy can sprint.  I have no doubt he thought I was escaping the scary scorpion and leaving him there to deal with it.

Instead, I was after my camera.  After all, it was a blog experience.  But the scorpion was dead and gone by the time I returned with camera in hand.

It gave each of us a chance to laugh at our own little farce.  Despite our thoughts, not one of us sissied out.

While the door was being repaired, the bell at the gate ran again.  This time it was a long-time reader from Alaska.  He was on his way to Cihuatlán, the seat of our local government, to watch a planned demonstration protesting the rising property crimes in Melaque.

He wanted to know if I wanted to go along.  Because I had no idea how long the door repair would take, I told him I might meet him over there.  And I did.

The demonstration was scheduled to start at 11 AM.  I got there at about 11:15, and Norm told me I had missed nothing. 

There was nothing to miss.  The square was filled with no one but a couple of shoe shine guys sans customers.  And a lonely pigeon.

But no upset citizens.  After we waited for about an hour, we noticed about five Mexican businesspeople who easily could have been the organizers.  No signs.  No bullhorns.  No blocked traffic.*

Now, I am not denigrating the problem.  Property crimes are a real problem in our village.  As you know, our church was hit -- and it appears even the Villa Obregon church lost its communion chalice to thieves.

But if you want a public demonstration, you do not send respectable bourgeois businessmen into the street.  And that did not happen. 

As we were leaving, it appeared the organizers had retired to a local taco restaurant to meet with their elected delegate to the local government.  That is how the bourgeoisie effectively conducts a demonstration.

So, I guess it turned out to be a full day of farces.  First the scorpion. Then the demonstration.

My door is fixed.  I doubt I can say the same thing about neighborhood thefts.


* -- If I had known, I could have gone into the government building and watched a message board buddy, Steve McManus, marry his Mexican sweetheart, Olivia.  I wish both of them well.

master of the flight

I do not like making plans. 

Inevitably, plans suck the fun out of almost everything.  Especially, travel.  Too much planning and there is no sense of spontaneity in what should be the epitome of surprise.

But there are times I cannot avoid the dreaded planning syndrome.  My cruise to northern France and Spain -- I mentioned it yesterday --is an example.

When I was in Washington earlier this year (pulling for patti), my friends Ken and Patti asked me if I would be interested in joining them on a river cruise in France.  Ken, an avid student of the Second World War, has long wanted to visit Normandy.  A river cruise would tie a visit to the beaches with a stay in Paris.  A perfect combination.

For various reasons, we abandoned the river cruise in favor of an 11-day cruise with Celebrity out of Harwich --  stopping in La Havre, La Rochelle, Bilbao, and Vigo.  Paris, the beaches of Normandy, and Santiago de Compostela will undoubtedly be on the agenda.

But it is far too early to start thinking about that.  Remember?  No planning.

What is not too early to do is book airline reservations.  I have spent several international flights lasting in excess of 10 hours during the past two years. Always in coach.  And, even though I survived the experience, each flight was something to endure.  Like a presidential speech.  Any president.

My Alaska frequent flyer account has accumulated quite a few miles with my  trips to and from Nevada, Oregon, and Melaque.  Enough miles that I could indulge myself with either business or first class tickets on my flights to and from London.

Here is the rub.  Premium seats on international flights are limited.  Severely limited.  They are like goods at Costco.  If you do not buy them when you see them, there may be no tomorrow.

Alaska posts its flights 331 days in the future.  That means I have had to do something that has never even entered my mind.  Buy airline tickets almost a year before I shoehorn myself into my airline seat.

And I have done that.  With some success.  I managed to book a non-stop first class ticket on British Airways from Mexico City to London and a non-stop return ticket to Seattle with Ken and Patti in business class.  All for free.

Well, what passes for free in the world of frequent flyer miles currency.  There are always those pesky fees, taxes, and surcharges.

I am convinced that the Thénardiers are now working for British Airways.  You know the lyrics from Les Misérables.

Charge 'em for the lice, extra for the mice

Two percent for looking in the mirror twice

Here a little slice, there a little cut

Three percent for sleeping with the window shut

At least, I didn't have to worry about lice and mice.  But the extra charges for the Mexico City - London leg were:
$39.41 Taxes *
$12.50 Booking Fee
$310.00 Fuel Surcharge

That last one must be for looking in the mirror twice.  But, let's face it, $361.91 (plus 70,000 frequent flyer miles) is far more affordable than the $10,000 or more that it would cost me if I had plopped my Visa on the counter.

For whatever reason, the flight back to Seattle had additional fees of $611.50 -- and no explanation of services.  Not that it matters.  I am willing to bet that the difference in almost three Franklins has to do with the fact that the aircraft will set wheel in the United States of Taxation.

But there is more.  For reasons that are not germane to this essay, I had to pay an additional booking fee of $100.

And then the financial coup de grâce.  When I tried to book my business class seat online, British Airways helpfully informed me that I could book a seat for free -- as long as I chose it within the 24 hours before the flight.  But, if I wanted to choose a seat before the only remaining one is the seat that is banged every time the bathroom door is opened, it would cost me £80, thank you very much.

In US Dollars, that is about $130 -- for the honor of picking a seat.

But I paid it.  After all, I only have to pay for myself.  Ken and Patti have two bills to pay.

If I have added it correctly, my "free" ticket will cost me $1,173.41.  I will not give a second thought to those long-lost dollars as I nestle into my cozy, little suite on Victor Hugo Air.

And this may be why I do not bother with plans.
  

* -- All of the above amounts (with the exception of the sneering reference to British Pounds) are in US Dollars -- not Mexican Pesos.

steve -- sometimes in mexico

That is how fellow blogger Sparks describes Mexpatriate.

I chuckled in my best Homer Simpson tautological voice when I first saw it.  "It's funny because it's true."

I have not calculated the days I have spent in and away from Melaque since I moved here in early 2009.  But I am certain there have been more away game days than home court days.  Even though, I am just as certain I have spent most of my time inside the boundaries of Mexico in those five years.

I thought about that on Friday while I was out shooting life and death photographs.  And nothing shows the tenacity of life as much as the jungle on our surroundings hills.  Take a look at the green in the photograph at the top of this post.

Four years ago,when I was looking at renting a house in west Melaque that would have put me in the drug kingpin category (a moving experience), I noticed a rock outcrop at the top of the hill.  At the time, I thought there was a cross up there.  My supposition was that it must somehow play a role in the annual Easter passion.

If there was a cross there, it is now gone.  But there is a pole with celebratory banners on it -- and there is another flag.  Maybe that is what I saw earlier.

For the past years, I have tried to discover the path to the rocks.  If there is one, it has a subtle trail head.  I have walked and driven around what should be the obvious candidates.  Maybe I need to start looking at dark horses.

As I stood there looking at the jungle-covered hill, I heard that little voice -- you know, the one that makes me content to sit and look at the sea whenever I feel the urge to exercise -- saying: "Who are you kidding, Jim Fixx?  Do you think you are really going to climb that hill?"

For some reason, that same voice was bizarrely quiet during my most recent quest for adventure.  I am flying to Britain next August for a cruise to northern Spain and France.  But I arrive in London 11 days before the cruise.  (There is a good reason.  And I will tell you about it in a future post.)

What to do in Britain for 11 days?  The question should not engender a swelling of violins.  I am lucky to have such a choice.  But after 30 years of living and visiting there, I have seen most of the country.

Then I ran across something I have never done.  I could take an unguided, unposted coast-to-coast hike in northern England.  132 miles.  In 8 or 9 days.

If you are now rolling your eyes, you have a better sense of who I am than I did when I first read about the hike.  My reaction?  I can do that.

So said the man who overheats walking the three miles from his house to Barra de Navidad.  On a flat path.  This path crosses a mountain range.  Mind you, a small mountain range.  But a mountain range, nonetheless.

Because denial did not set in, practicality took its place.  I decided if I started training now by walking several miles each day through our local hills, I might, just might, be able to do it.

This is one reason I write a blog.  To write down my ideas and see how they fare in black and white.  So far, it is not building up much speed on the runway.

Maybe I should find my inner Alexander Mackenzie by searching for the secret passage to the rock on the top of the hill here in Melaque.  Then I can start talking about traversing Britain.

At least, Sparks, I can do that in Mexico.