Some questions continually plague travelers.
Such as, why do some Mexican rest stops (such as, the one at the volcano just outside Colima) have urinals installed so high on the wall that Wilt Chamberlain would struggle to use them? Did a governor's mathematically-challenged cousin get the contract? Or are they for the exclusive use of an unknown group of Mexicans (la raza alta?) who travel only under the mantle of darkness?
For about a year, I had asked my Mexican friends why the urinals are often set so high in public bathrooms. No one had a good answer. My friend Alan (you may recall him from cart of laughs) provided the most practical response. "Who cares? I always use the toilet."
Unlike Alan, I am always attuned to the peculiarities of roadside bathrooms. And I found a doozy last week in Oregon at a rest stop just south of Portland on I-5. I know that several of you have stopped there.
I thought in my absence Oregon had turned some sort of green corner. Men #1? Men #2?
Now, where I was raised, #1 and #2 have very specific meanings in this context. Had recycling actually gone that far with our -- waste? And how do we avoid commingling our recyclables? It reminded me of one of Mr. Burns's wittiest lines: "Yes, well, it does sound delightful! I can't wait to start pawing through my garbage like some starving raccoon!"
It turned out that #1 was closed. But that was not a problem. After all the rest stop sits in a copse of Douglas fir. And men have been resolving that number amongst the trees from time immemorial.
Or, at least, that was the excuse I was going to use if any of the police, who usually stake out the place for people indulging in blind date sexual trysts, tapped me on the shoulder in mid-stream. I could see the magistrate's face beaming at my bon mot.
While I was working out that scenario in front of the sign, my sainted brother tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out that the #1 and #2 designated the presence of two bathrooms, not their function. He and Alan must have taken the same problem-solving class.
Rather than spending time in the local hoosegow, I am back in Mexico pondering those thyroid-case urinals.
I may take a soap box with me on my next trip passing the volcanoes. You know the one. I am standing on it right now.
I am a walking contradiction.
I claim to admire conservative principles, but I am a bit uncomfortable around the tapestry of the secular civil rites of America.
Several years ago, a fellow Air Force attorney and I were standing in the shade of a chestnut tree (and our own cynicism) making wise cracks about the inanity of the change of command ceremony that was playing out on the overheated quad in front of us. We congratulated ourselves on having the good sense not to have joined one of the hidebound traditional military services -- like the Navy.
In his introduction to Did You Ever See a Dream Walking: American Conservative Thought in the Twentieth Century, William F. Buckley wrote what I thought at the time, in the early 1970s, was a very odd sentence. "I am not conservative by temperament." I had no idea what he meant. How could a person espouse conservative principles and not be conservative by temperament?
It took getting several years of mileage on my Adidas before I understood the wisdom of that sentence. One could be a conservative and still be open to other ideas and other people. To be, in an old-fashioned conservative virtue, civil to those we meet. After all, it was Bill Buckley who said 99 out of a hundred people are interesting -- and the other is interesting because he is different.
Today is Memorial Day -- the day we honor those who died in the service of defending our liberties.
Last night, I watched Gary Oldman's portrayal of Winston Churchill (another man of conservative principles who did not have a conservative temperament) in The Darkest Hour. Even though the film is about the decision Churchill, as the political leader of Britain, had to make in whether to sue for peace or to fight on to the end, it is a perfect example of one of the watershed moments of history where the liberal tradition of freedom stood up against the brutal evil of tyranny (evidenced in naziism, and, later, in the flip side of the same coin, communism).
Politicians made brave choices -- and young men then carried out those policies. Many of them dying in a war not of their choosing, but risking their lives for a cause greater than themselves.
I thought the importance of this weekend while attending the memorial service for my aunt on Friday (goodnight, gracie). My cousin, Dennis, played on his violin an old hymn favored by soloists -- "His Eye is on the Sparrow."
That song always reminds me of one of Anne Lamott's best essays, "Knocking on Heaven's Door." She recalls a moment of miraculous grace in her church where irreconcilable people found peace through music and grace. The music was "His Eye is on the Sparrow." That same type of reconciliation is woven into the events of a flight where the passengers, who have differing religious and political views, find the common ground of their humanity.
Lamott ends her essay with a brilliant flourish:
I thought to myself, I do not know if what happened at church was an honest to God little miracle, and I don't know if there has been another one here, the smallest possible sort, the size of a tiny bird, but I felt like I was sitting with my cousins on a plane eight miles up, a plane that was going to make it home; and it made me so happy that I suddenly thought, this is plenty of miracle for me to rest in now.
As America honors the soldiers who have fallen in its service, we need to remember why did they what they did, and how we should follow their example, not only by cherishing our liberties, but putting them into action by finding what binds us together as a nation. That alone would be a small miracle.
Listening to Anne Lamott's essay would not be a bad start.
Santa may not have a list, but Internet retirement sites certainly do.
They are constantly feeding us lists of the best places for this or that. "This or that" meaning places where some self-proclaimed experts tell us we can own our own personal paradise to live out our dwindling years while spending our handful of pension shekels.
The lists almost always fall into two categories. The first includes the equivalent of colonial pockets in foreign lands where expatriates seldom hear a language other than their own, can dine at familiar chain restaurants, or drink in pubs run by a chap you knew from school, and live in a housing development that would feel at home in Hillsboro.
And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. If it is what they are looking for. I usually remind critics who claim Ajijic is South Scottsdale that, at least, the people who have chosen to live there are adventurous enough to move from their home country to experience something new in life.
The second type of list is for people who snort coffee out of their nose when they read sentences like that last one. The list usually consists of "authentic" retirement spots. The type of places where you need an atlas to accompany your newspaper reading. After all, where is Arequipa?
When I chose my area of Mexico for retirement, I had a list of criteria. They all sounded great. But my part of Mexico did not even come close to matching my mandatory requirements.
Fortunately, I had a major goal that trumped all of that fiddly detail. I left Salem, Oregon because I was far too comfortable. I wanted to live somewhere where I would wake up each morning and not know how I would make it through the day. And I found it.
If I have read the list of the latest adventurous retirement spots ("Beat the Retiree Crowds to these 5 Places Abroad") correctly, the author shares my notion of retirement life as being something other than a rehearsal for dying.
So, if you like the idea of a less well-known home, with lower living costs, a "more authentic" experience, along with slow internet, unpaved roads, and limited health care, you might want to take a look at the current vogue list. (And, yes, I am perfectly aware of the irony that a list of "unfound paradises" soon turns into the next Puerto Vallarta.)
The five are:
1. Arequipa, Peru -- a big city with high altitudes and low prices.
2. Cascais, Portugal -- close to Lisbon (one of my favorite European cities), but not for those with anal retentive issues when dealing with bureaucracy.
3. Cayo, Belize -- truly back-to nature, in a well-greased palm sort of way.
4. Las Terrenas, Dominican Republic -- a French village in the Caribbean with lots of cheek-kissing, and minimal health care to deal with the consequences.
5. Phenom Penh, Cambodia -- for people who are nostalgic for Mussolini authoritarianism (and cannot move to Venezuela). Big city. Low costs. As long as you keep your political opinions of the government to yourself.
Interestingly, health care seems to be an issue in at least three of the suggested paradises. I particularly enjoyed the description of Cayo, Belize: "A potential downside: Health care 'is not a strong suit,' so many expats cross the border to Mexico for high-quality medical care."
I am certain not a few readers had to re-read that comment. Going to Mexico for "high-quality medical care?"
Yup. Even though I do not know what is on offer in Quintana Roo, generally, the health care in Mexico is top-notch. Private health care is low cost and some of the best in the world.
For those who cannot afford private care, there are two public care options. Based on what Mexicans and expatriates have told me, the public health option is basic, but perfectly adequate.
None of the options on the list could seduce me away from Barra de Navidad. Though, I will confess that Portugal was batting her eyes at me. Probably, because London and Paris were high on my retirement options list.
Whenever I travel, I inevitably ask myself if I would like to live in the city I am visiting. My answer often is: "Yes. I think I would." And, then, I don't.
Because I am perfectly happy living in my little life-challenging village by the sea. At least, for now.
You all know the question. We have all asked it.
You see some new construction in your neighborhood. The first thing you want to know is: "What is it going to be?"
About a month ago, a construction crew started clearing off a block-long lot on the main street through our part of town. Just two blocks from my house.
Within days, trenches for the foundation were dug and dump trucks had delivered large rocks to fill the trenches. The footprint looked far to big to be a residence, and most of the other buildings that face the street in the area are commercial. So, I assumed it was going to be a series of shops.
When I asked who I assumed was the foreman, he confirmed my guess. But, he very firmly added it was just one shop.
That struck me as odd. In the other blocks, there is room for five or six shops. But I did not think about it anymore.
What I did do was watch how quickly the floor was poured and how the basic walls went up just as quickly. The crew obviously knew what they were doing.
Then, I saw it. A new sign has been posted on the wall of the construction site -- offering good wages and benefits for the employees of the new store. An Oxxo. A convenience store.
I assume that Oxxo (and its local rival Kiosko) must do some sort of market studies before they build new stores. When I moved to this area, there was just one. At a gas station on the road to Guadalajara. Melaque now hosts several. Even little Barra de Navidad has two Oxxos and a Kisoko. Now, we will have a third Oxxo.
Like all change, this store will have its opponents. The front line fighters will be northerners. Most of them moved away from their home countries in search of less modernity (even though they are prone to get rather cranky about local customs like loud music and fireworks).
But, there will be some neighborhood opposition, as well. Mainly from the owners of the line of abarrotes (small grocery stores) that line our main street. There are at least six, but I may have forgotten one or two. (I should point out that every Mexican neighbor I talked with gave the new store a thumbs up.)
Oxxo and Kiosko are not exactly competitors with the abarrotes. The abarrotes sell a far wider range of products. Where they do compete is for beverages and snacks -- the life blood of convenience stores.
There is an Oxxo and and a Kiosko within walking distance of my house. The only thing I regularly buy at the Kiosko is my brand of bottled water. Santorini. It is not delivered to my neighborhood, and none of the abarrotes carry that brand.
I do not patronize the Oxxo at the entrance of Barra de Navidad because the staff there are concurrently indifferent and a bit arrogant. The staff at the Kiosko know me by name, know the products I prefer, and always pretend they are happy to see me.
That makes a world of difference. Relationships often trump price in Mexico. That is one reason the abarrotes are vulnerable to convenience stores. They do not compete in price. All of them sell the same product at the same price, and, if that product is offered at a convenience store, it will always be more expensive at the abarrotes.
Difference in attitudes toward customers is true for some abarrotes. Some are run by owners who seem to personally care about their customers. Some seem to see customers as an interruption in their day.
The abarrote nearest to my house is convenient. But that is not why I shop there. The owner always keeps me informed when she will be getting fresh shipments. And she actually laughs at my lame jokes. At my age, these things matter.
So, I will welcome the Oxxo to the neighborhood. It will be more convenient for lugging Santorini water bottles home. And I will now be able to pay my electric, internet, and cellular telephone bills by just walking down the block. Of course, if the staff proves to be as surly as the other Oxxo, my bill-paying and water purchases will remain at Kiosko.
And I will continue doing most of my local grocery shopping at my favorite little store, where I am known by my greeting -- "practiamente perfecto."
It has gone everywhere in the world where I have lived.
Oregon. Texas. Colorado. California. Greece. Great Britain. Nevada. And, now, in its last burst of glory. Mexico.
It, of course, is The Graham Kerr Cookbook. And, as the cover would have it, "by The Galloping Gourmet." Not The Galloping Gourmet Cookbook by Graham Kerr. That is not how celebrities think of themselves. And it is how we think of them.
There was no other word than "celebrity" to apply to the Graham Kerr I first met back in the late 1960s. His shtick defined what we now know as celebrity chefs. Before there was Rachel Ray, or Iron Chef, or the fascist tantrums of Gordon Ramsey, there was Graham Kerr, the galloping gourmet. Or, as it later turned out, the gulping gourmet, who was always seen on camera with a goblet of wine.
Of course, there were the stars of the era. Charles Beard. Julia Child. Chefs of great renown whose wit was as dry as the tarragon sprinkled in their filets de sole sylvestre.
There was nothing dry about Graham Kerr. His goal was not to teach methods of cooking in the traditional sense. He found traditions to be stifling. What he wanted was cooking techniques that were practical -- and that were subject to constant revision. That paragon of utilitarianism Jeremy Bentham would have found a soul mate in Graham Kerr.
But Kerr was, most of all, a showman. His trademark leap onto the stage set the pace for the rest of the show. Along with some groaning jokes that would have not passed muster at the Brighton pier. But we loved him. He had enough energy to be the Jerry Springer of sauté.
The Galloping Gourmet was first televised in 1969. It is hard to believe that it was only on the air for three seasons. Three seasons of hyperactivity that almost ruined the marriage between Kerr and his producer wife.
Then, disaster struck. An automobile accident that almost killed both of them, and left them badly injured.
Since then, his life has taken several different paths, including a deep commitment to Christianity. But, the food path has now come full circle.
In his introduction to the original cookbook, he candidly noted: "I am equally certain that, in the years to come, our advances in food technology and kitchen appliances will require revisions being made [to this cookbook]." And so they have.
At least, food methods have changed. Kerr's reliance on clarified butter (I heard the term first from his lips) and butter seem to be from a different era. An ea when we loved the food we ate, instead of thinking of it solely as another form of gasoline.
Kerr has now published a new cookbook. But a cookbook that defines his more conservative self. It is a re-issue of the old cookbook -- with annotations in his neat, rounded script.
I gave away most of my cookbook collection when I moved to Mexico. I long ago discovered Kerr's basic philosophy was true for me -- cooking traditions are boring; i constantly need to have my food preparation techniques challenged and renewed.
Most cookbooks do not do that. But the internet does. I am not certain Kerr was correct when he predicted changed in appliances and food technology would be the force to revise his research. But the internet is.
A quick search through food sites will usually give me the impetus to try not only new food combinations,but new methods of preparation. Living in Mexico has also given me a new food palette to work with. I am constantly running across vegetables or fruits that I do not recognize -- or cuts of meats I would not have imagined.
Having said that, I may buy a copy of Kerr's revised cookbook. Mine is getting a bit tattered. The pages that open to peas à l’étouffée and chicory meunière are smeared with the residue of more butter than went into either dish. And that is a lot.
There is something nice about physical cookbooks. It is not just the tactile sensation of holding a book in my hand, even though there is that. In the case of the cookbooks I have kept, they are all friends. Some I bought. Some were gifts. I treasure one from a woman I should have married.
And, even though some of the cookbooks were quite revolutionary when they were published, they now represent the cooking establishment. But all revolutions build off of the establishment. So, I keep them to act as prods to creativity. Each recipe whispers to me: "You can do better than this." And I often do.
Kerr's life moves now at a saunter, not a gallop. He recently told a group of students who were visiting him in his Seattle home that celebrity is a hollow goal. "If each of us thought we are not likely to get a major TV show, but we are likely to have neighbors -- and if you could contribute to neighbors, like growing a garden or sharing produce -- there's nothing like it."
That is reason enough for me to buy the book. As a witness to the man who grew from the center of the limelight to being a man with peace at the center who finds contentment in reaching his hand out to others. And, as Voltaire would have it, making his garden grow.
There is a lesson in that for all of us.
I am flying north again this week.
Last month, it was for a wedding.
This month, it is for a memorial service. For my aunt who died early in April (goodnight, gracie). My cousin, her son, has asked me to speak, and I have been working on some words that will be entirely inadequate to sum up her life. At best, I can hope for a vignette.
The past few months have been a time of transition for me. Several people close to me have died, and I have not mentioned them previously here. A member of our church board. A former Clackamas County District Attorney who served as a legal and political mentor since 1966. And two local notable personalities who added to both the depth and the weirdness of our small expatriate community here (if "community" is really the word).
I started listing them today and realized how much I miss seeing each of them. They all had become almost scenery in my life. And then they were gone.
There is a moment in all of these reveries where nostalgia can easily slip into the land of the black dog. The black dog that would love nothing more than to sever nostalgia's aorta.
I was saved from that episode by a bird. A small bird. One of God's clowns in nature. A hummingbird.
I like to think it is just one bird. My bird. That comes only to my patio to slake its nectar thirst.
As far as I know, there is more than one on this particular circuit. I have not even been able to accurately identify its species. It flits by too fast.
Whether it is one or more, I had not seen a hummingbird for months in my patio. In an attempt to tame my yellow-flowering vines that provide shade and privacy to each of the house's bedrooms, I cut them back almost to the ground this fall.
No vine. No yellow flowers. No hummingbird.
I did wonder where it went to supplement its diet. Of course, there are plenty of other gardens in our tropical village. And, for all I know, while the vines were down, it might have been vacationing in Arizona.
But, it is now back. I had just finished cataloging the deaths of my friends when she appeared (her lack of color has tipped me off enough to genderize her) out of the corner of my eye.
There is something about the antics of hummingbirds that fascinates everyone I know. If one appears in a garden, everyone pauses to watch. The hovering. The darting. The blurred images of a purposeful life.
And, just like that, as if she were Wonder Woman, she was gone. She had briefly shared a bit of magic, and now she had other souls slipping into the morass that she needed to save.
The hummingbird brought another gift. She provided me with the hook I needed to sum up my aunt's life.
And that is a lot for a little bird to give in one day.
Screenwriters of horror films have a little trick.
Whenever they encounter lulls in their story arcs, the easiest way to pick up the pace is to stick in a scene where scorpions menace the leading lady. And, even though it is the rankest of cinematic clichés, it almost always works. Even when we all know how the tension is resolved.
There is something visceral about scorpions. My theory is that they are like sharks -- perfect killing machines. Claws to grasp. Armor to protect. A lethal sting to dispatch its prey. I am surprised an arms merchant has not devised something similar.
We tend to shy away from anything that looks that terrifying.
I have had to resort to misinformation to lure some of my friends down here. Scorpions often top their list of reasons not to cross the border. I tell them the chance they would ever see a scorpion was almost zero. (And that is true. As far as it goes. Scorpions do their hunting in the dark.)
I am glad none of those guests were in the house today. Saturday is cleaning and landscaping day. While Dora was busy tidying up the bedrooms, her son, Lupe, and I were trimming my vines and sweeping out the garage.
I saw the first one. One of the largest beige scorpions I have seen since I moved here. A bit of Raid took care of it.
Then Lupe saw the second. A tiny one. Just a baby. But it too had a Raid date.
Dora came out to see what we were doing -- and found the third. Raid. Done.
Three scorpions. All within a five foot radius of each other. That is the highest number I have killed in one day. If this was a Disney production, they would be a cute animated couple with their young son.
The disconcerting fact is that I walked through the same area last night in my bare feet when I got out of the swimming pool. Reminder to self: sandals exist for a good reason.
Now, before anyone says they are not coming to Mexico because of scorpions, let me ask you how you would react if someone said, "I am not going to visit Oregon. They have yellow jackets."
I have been stung by a whole series of insects over the years. I have also been stung by a scorpion. To me, there was no difference. They all hurt, but I survived them.
There are, of course, exceptions. People who are allergic to bee stings are usually also allergic to scorpion stings. My brother is one of those. When he is here, we regularly sweep the area for bees and wasps. And we are careful of scorpions.
So, come on down. This is not a mummy horror set. And the chances are that you will never see a scorpion. But, if you do, pay attention to them. They are as fascinating as tarantulas and rattlesnakes.
But that is an entirely different story.
