Everyone looks at your shoes.
Well, the people who look at shoes do.
As of today, I am prepared to suffer their nosy judgment. My ever-swelling feet are to be clad with fine Corinthian leather, as Ricardo Montalban would (and did) lie.
Mr. Postman delivered my latest purchase this afternoon from Amazon. If I had not come north, I would not now own them. Amazon would not deliver them to my Mexican address, and Amazon Mexico did not offer what I wanted.
As you may have guessed, I am a tad picky about my shoes. I favor a certain brand and make. About a decade ago, I started wearing a variation of these Eccos.
Most shoes make my feet feel as if they are being restrained by a Sylvia Plath jacket. Not these. They are so light, I feel as if I am walking foot nude. Dancing shoes could not be more comfortable.
Unfortunately, Mexico has not been overly kind to the three or four pairs i have worn out in my travels. Quality leather and Mayan ruins do not make good partners.
In most Mexican cities, there is a shoe shine man within easy walking distance. They do miracles with my shoes.
In our little fishing village, there is only one shoe shine guy who shows up periodically in the Barra de Navidad plaza. He repairs luggage as a sideline.
You have met him already in "i simply adore the colors here". In May of last year, I dropped off my scuffed mahogany-colored Eccos. When I picked up the refurbished shoes, they were shiny. But in a new color that could charitably be called muddy brown.
At least, they were uniformly brown. That is, until they started peeling like an old barn in Kansas.
While I was in Bogota last April, I stopped in a square for a shine. I pulled out my telephone and either read the newspaper or stumbled through my Spanish lesson in Duolingo.
Whichever it was, I was so engrossed I paid little mind to what was happening at my feet. When he announced he was done, I was shocked to see my shoes had acquired a new layer of paint. This time, the brown was dark enough to pass for black. To gild this particular tale, he charged me almost twice what the guy in Barra charged.
Because the soles on my shoes are beginning to give way, I decided to retire them. After all, makeup can be ladled on just so many times.
Thanks to the wonders of Amazon, I ordered a pair on Tuesday, and they are here on Thursday.
I can hear some of you right now. Yes, there are plenty of shoes in Mexico. Leon is one of the largest manufacturer of shoes in the world. But good shoes are a rarity in our local shoe shops.
One of these days, I will return to Mexico City and shop the halls of El Palacio de Hierro until my Visa cries "tio."
Until then, These new shoes will keep me on the stylish road. And, Jennifer, you are correct: they are better than bacon.
I do not miss much about American culture.
When I am in Mexico, I almost forget there is a country north of the Rio Bravo. That is until one of my fellow bloggers or Facebook friends overdoses on Trump or Obama hysteria.
But, once I am here, I start suffering from my own bout of eccentric nostalgia.
This morning I popped into Costco to reconnoiter. I was not in a buying mood. My sole reason for being there was to (1) look at items I might buy if I still lived in Oregon (a 75" curved SUHD Samsung screen) and (2) list items I might want to take back to Mexico with me (almost nothing).
Everything in Costco is available in Mexico. I learned that lesson long ago. There is very little reason to lug any of it across the border. And, when I do, I often end up paying either duty or IVA on what I bring back. There certainly is no saving.
But that does not keep me from indulging in my category 1 dreams -- things I would buy if I still lived here. Food usually tops that list.
Take the chicken sausage pictured. Chicken sausage is one of the foundations of my cooking up here.
The prime example is my favorite macaroni and cheese dish. Sun-dried tomato penne pasta. Onion. Garlic. Fresh basil. Sun-dried -- or fresh -- tomatoes. Chicken sausage -- usually, mango and jalapeño. Topped by a home-made three cheese cream sauce.
When I was here in June, I made some for Darrel. We experimented with several variations. Each one better than the last. Well, with the exception of the cheese sauce where we mistakenly used whole cream and ended up with what looked like vanilla pudding.
I cannot make that particular dish in Mexico. Well, I can with some drastic revisions. There is simply no spicy sweet chicken sausage in my area of Mexico.
And I am fine with that. There are plenty of dishes I can make in Mexico that I cannot make here.
What is consistent between the two countries is shopping, I have the opportunity to dive into crowds of strangers -- each one another conversation possibility.
That probably says a lot more about me than my preference for chicken sausage.
My niece Kaitlyn lives in Seattle.
You have met her before. She is the gun enthusiast and collector of exotic pets (shootout at the kaitlyn corral).
The other day, while doing her laundry, she grabbed a bra to throw in the washer. What you see is what she saw. A giant black scorpion. It startled her.
It shouldn't have. It is merely one of her pets. It could have been worse. She owns a seven foot Vietnamese python with a biting personality.
The scorpion had managed to find an escape route out of its cage -- as they are wont to do. I am amazed how scorpions can squeeze through the smallest of cracks. Just like a crafty lawyer.
A trip to Home Depot for additional building supplies has the scorpion safely locked in its cage. Well, until the next time it manages to escape.
My nephew Baron decided to honor his Aunt Kaitlyn this afternoon. Baron is here for a couple of weeks visiting his grandparents, Darrel and Christy. It has been interesting hanging out with a 9-year old. We tend to relate at the same level.
Christie took him to a candy story downtown today. He returned with what I thought was a garden variety sucker. Strawberry, by its color. But the garden it came from must have been the midnight garden of good and evil.
Here it is.
If you look closely, you might note the sucker has a chewy center. A scorpion to be precise.
Baron could not wait to slurp the sucker down to the level of its novelty core. It was better than Cracker Jack.
And slurp it, he did. The scorpion is now freed of its sugary cocoon. If we were in one of those terrible mummy movies, the scorpion would come alive in the night and call down all sorts of Egyptian evil on our lives.
Or maybe it will just call Kaitlyn's scorpion to pay us a visit riding the back of the pesky python.
I gave you fair warning. I have been talking with a 9-year old -- and all of this makes perfect sense to me.
Mexico is in the news these days.
The fact that the issue is immigration is not news. Mexico's treatment of illegal immigrants is.
During the past two days in Oregon, illegal immigration has come up in conversation a lot. Washington may be focused on health care and taxes, but a lot of voters are concerned about immigration -- mostly of the illegal variety.
Central Oregon survives on agriculture. And agriculture, to a great degree, depends on migrant labor -- primarily from Mexico.
For a lot of reasons, farmers are finding it difficult to find workers to pick crops this year. Some lemon farmers in California are paying up to $19 an hour -- and that is still not filling the orchards with workers.
The people I have talked with, who are concerned about illegal immigration, are surprised that Mexico also has an immigration problem. And a number of world observers are concerned about how Mexico is reacting.
Here is a fact that most of the people I have talked with were not aware of: since about 2009, The States have experienced a net loss of Mexican migrants -- legal and illegal. That means more Mexicans have left the country than entered it.
That has been true for a lot of reasons. The American economy was not attractive to some workers in the recession. There has been a great negative demographic change in the Mexican population. The Obama administration administered a record number of Mexican deportations. And then there is the obvious message from the current Washington administration that illegal immigration is not welcome.
Most of the illegal immigration crossing from Mexico is done by Central Americans, People escaping the social train wrecks in Guatemala, Honduras, and El Salvador.
Anecdotal information from the Suchiate River (Mexico's southern border with Guatemala indicates there has been a decrease in illegal immigration from Central America into Mexico. But what has changed is the stimulate destination of the migrants. Most pf them are now interested in seeking asylum in Mexico, rather than in The States.
That makes some sense. Culturally, Mexico is far more familiar to someone from Tegucigalpa than is Denver. And Mexico has a rather liberal asylum law for those escaping persecution from a cornucopia of woes: race, religion, nationality, gender, social group membership, and political views.
Historically, Mexico has opened its doors to political exiles of the left. Trotsky. Castro. Supporters of the republic in the Spanish civil war.
But it has never been faced with large numbers of potential asylum seekers. Now that they are arriving from Central America, Mexico is uneasy. And its unease is evidenced by behavior that is not getting it high public relations marks.
Illegal immigrants can change their status by seeking asylum in Mexico. Most do not. They remain in the shadows. People escaping bad circumstances are often reluctant to have any official dealings. And, let's face it, Mexican bureaucracy does not have a sterling reputation.
Those who do seek asylum have increased in numbers. 9000 applied last year. That pace has increased. For the first half of this year, 7000 have applied.
Mexico prides itself for its ability to quickly process the requests -- much faster than either Canada or the United States. The speed is for one reason: to quickly deport unsuccessful applicants. In the past, only 40% of the applications were approved. As a result of the speed, not all decisions are based on well-founded facts.
Unaccompanied children are hit the hardest. 77% are deported. The number in The States is 3%.
Local Mexicans have not taken kindly to the illegal immigrants. There are complaints of job and housing discrimination, robbery, assault, and an incredibly high rate of rapes. Officials have shown their disdain for the law by deporting children born in Mexico -- in violation of Mexican law.
And the response from the Mexican government? The attorney general is investigating crimes committed against the migrants. And the president has promised more efforts to integrate the migrants into Mexican society. That sounds a bit like the fluff the government promises the public concerning the drug cartels.
But there is some progress. The number of children illegally deported has decreased. And the asylum application approval rate has increased to 63%.
My favorite American president once said: "They say the world has become too complex for simple answers. They are wrong. There are no easy answers, but there are simple answers. We must have the courage to do what we know is morally right."
I believe that is still true. Mexico is at a great turning point in its history. For over a century, its gaze has been internal. It can no longer shield its eyes from what is happening on its southern border.
As the 12th largest economy in the world, and the largest Latin power in the region, Mexico can be a positive force in giving guidance and assistance to Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras. Unless the social problems are somewhat ameliorated on its southern border, Mexico will face the same illegal immigration problem that faces a large portion of the world's nations.
It could be any airport waiting lounge in almost any town in the world.
Des Moines. Baku. Ottawa.
This one just happens to be at the Manzanillo International Airport. But there is nothing to distinguish it from its kin. The next being more dreary than the former.
That is where I am writing now. The wonders of traveling dictate that a writer can be in one country in one paragraph, and on a different continent in the next.
But that is not true of this trip. I am heading to Bend, Oregon for a brief stay -- with stops in Los Angeles, Seattle, and Redmond (the one in Oregon, not the one that hosts the Microsoft empire).
This trip is drenched in altruism. I am going to accompany my mother to an annual reunion in her hometown. Powers is one of those small towns where the warp of the town and the woof of the high school are so closely woven that it is easy to forget they are two separate entities.
Mom's high school class was small at graduation. There was a war going on at the time. You may have heard of it. If I am correct, she may the last surviving member of her class.
Just shy of her 90th birthday, she is insisting on driving. There are a lot of reasons for that.
She has mentioned this may be her last opportunity to attend. So, this is going to be a special drive. Instead of traveling as Darrel and I do, we are going to take several detours along the Oregon coast. Just because it is a great destination in its own right.
I was in the third grade when we left Powers. So, I remember some of my former classmates. Darrel was in the first grade. He does not have the same store of nostalgia. For me, it is a cornucopia of her life as a girl.
Well, they are calling my flight. I am on my way. And I hope the trip is more memorable than this waiting room. Either the waiting room goes -- or I do.
I want a dog's nose.
Not that there is anything wrong with the one bequeathed by my parents. After all, the wise learn to settle for what they get. And I certainly do not want one of those comical pug schnozes.
What I want is a dog's ability to live life through his nose. Barco certainly had the knack. It must be incredible to learn so much about your world with just a deep sniff.
But, this is one of my fantastic wishes that I do not need to have fulfilled by my fairy godmother. As long as I live in tropical Mexico, I can live through my own puny human olfactory senses.
Last evening, I was test driving my newly-recovered mobility (slowly, mind you) by walking around my neighborhood. We have been having daytime temperatures in the mid-90s. When the sun sets, it drops into the 80s, but the humidity increases.
Something in that mix stirs up the scents of dusk. We have flowers here all year. But in the summer, their tropical perfume hangs in clouds. It is almost like being smothered in Carmen Miranda's bosom.
And it is not just the evening. While floating in the pool during the height of the day's heat, the scent of distant flowers often passes on the breeze.
Even though I wish all the smells were as pleasant as my grandmother's cachet drawer, they are not. Smells here are a constant reminder of the cycle of life.
Rotting fish. Burning plastic. Fresh-cut grass. Maggoty chicken bones. Garlic and onion frying in oil. All mixed in one giant olio. Subtlety is not in the Mexican air.
I shared my experience by email with my friend John in Salem. He wrote that when he was at Tulane, the New Orleans scents were "a very important part of one's being there. . . . A good part of my memory of New Orleans is the smell of the place -- the ozone from the streetcars, the smell of simmering sewerage coming up from the manholes, the sweet smell of certain flowers and trees, the smell of the Mississippi River."
My experience in the south was the same. Every few years the Ar Force required me to attend its law school on the outskirts of Montgomery, Alabama. Always in August.
For an Oregonian boy weaned on the temperate summers of the Pacific Northwest, the summers in Alabama were always a jolt. But what I remember the most is the heady aroma of the evenings. Every tree and shrub seemed to be doing its best to attract errant pollinators. For that reason alone, the south will always be one of my fond memories.
And, I suppose I can say the same thing for Barra de Navidad. Now that my foot is back in walking order, I plan to slow down a bit and smell the occasional rose -- or plumeria.
And I won't need no stinkin' pug nose for that.
Remember how you felt when were a child at Christmas?
You had spent weeks hunting for the perfect present for your brother. And now you had to spend tortuous days waiting for the moment on Christmas Eve when he would open a gaudily-wrapped package -- and beam with pleasure.
OK. That is how it is suppose to happen. Even though, nine out of ten times that scenario ends with the recipient thinking: "Why did you think I would like something like this?" But I always hope for the better ending.
I have been waiting to share a photograph with you for almost two weeks now. But I could not conjure up an appropriate essay to accompany it. Being stuck in bed for almost two weeks is not conducive to generating creativity. Positive creativity, that is. You cannot imagine the number of political pieces I drafted and destroyed. And we are all better for me relieving you of the burden of even seeing them.
The Thursday before my infection set in, I was sitting with my friends Gary and Joyce at their restaurant (Papa Gallo's) on the San Patricio beach. It was one of our pleasant summer evenings. The temperature was high. The humidity was blissfully low. And the tourists were flocking the beach during the first week of summer vacation.
Every photographer knows the best lighting is the hour after the sun rises and the hour before it sets. The angle of the sunlight turns everything golden.
Because the sun was highlighting the colors on the beach, I pulled out my telephone to grab a few shots. And then it happened.
The rains arrived. "Rain" is not the correct word. When it rains here, the streets fill as if Venetian gondolas were to be a primary means of transportation.
This was more of a sprinkle. A mist. Nothing bothersome enough to the beach revelers to chase them from the water or sand.
But there was enough water in the air to refract the light. That is what a scientist would say. People with a poetic streak call it a rainbow. A Claudine Longet rainbow. The type of beauty that is almost ethereal. But it did not make me smile.
And that smile is why the photograph leads today's essay. I have good news. Of sorts.
Yesterday I saw my doctor. The visible portion of my infection is gone. But, yesterday my foot was still swollen enough to pass for a balloon.
I asked the doctor if I could fly to Oregon this Saturday. He told me I could do as I chose.
That is one thing I like about Mexican doctors. They treat their patients as if they were adults perfectly capable of making their own life decisions. Unlike their bossy northern brethren.
He did suggest I see a vein specialist. He thought I might have some sort of obstruction in my capillaries that is causing my foot to swell. But he had no suggestions on a name. Because I will need a specific test result to take with me, he ordered the test and I donated blood this morning. I should have the results tomorrow afternoon.
Here is my dilemma. I would prefer to see a doctor here. After all, I live here, and I will be getting my treatment here. But I do not have a suggested name. And I have only three days left in Mexico before I fly.
I will then be in Oregon. I thought of seeing a specialist there. But the northern health system is far more complicated than it is here. Tri-care (my military medical insurance) requires my primary physician to make all specialist referrals. I don't have a primary care physician. And I am outside the open enrollment period. I have the same issues with Medicare.
I believe someone suggested the name of a circulatory system specialist in the Manzanillo-Colima-Guadalajara area when I had my first bout of cellulitis. If anyone has any suggestions on a specialist in these parts, please let me know. A telephone number would be appreciated.
So, there is your gift. A photograph that makes me smile -- and I hope it does the same for you. As for the rest of this stuff, life will sort it out.
Eventually.
