A Storybook life

I’m living a Goldilocks life.  I fall asleep in other people’s beds, choose which one of their chairs feels just right and decide which cup would be a perfect complement to my morning coffee.  I’m an Older Woman who plays in grown-up doll houses while the owners are away.

Home owners call us House Sitters; we call ourselves Lucky.  Lucky to escape the humidity of La Paz summers, Fortunate to stay in houses we could never ever afford and, also Lucky to have pets for a limited time… cats who purr in my lap and dogs who beg Alex to play fetch.

Six years ago an acquaintance from San Francisco needed someone to take care of her dog while she went on vacation.  She asked if we’d be interested and we jumped right in.  That week changed our lives.  
Later she told her friends about us and now we’re “booked” almost all summer. 

In some ways house sitting is similar to staying at a bed and breakfast.  I remember our first B & B.  We took a trip to Germany in 1970 and stayed in Zimmers (private homes that rent out a bedroom or two).  I loved eating from plates that had served the family for generations, couldn’t resist fingering the creases of stiffly starched tablecloths and each night I shivered as I slid under fluffy down comforters.

House sitting has all the benefits of staying at a B & B and none of the downsides.  We don’t need to get dressed for breakfast or sit up straight (I’ve noticed that some inn keepers are more formal than their Victorian style furniture).  I can have my favorite breakfast whenever I’m hungry (a big bowl of oatmeal mixed with bran, cottage cheese, yogurt and two packets of Splenda – this may  sound disgusting to you but I enjoy it almost as much as a hot fudge Sunday - almost). I can eat on the patio, sit crossed legged on a deck chair and drift from being in the “Now” to being in the “Somewhere Else.”  The dogs and cats don’t mind; they don’t expect small talk.  And when it’s time to pack our bags and move on, we’re never asked, “Will you being paying with cash or credit card?”

House sitting literally opened doors into other people’s worlds.   We spent two weeks in an unfinished tiny rustic cabin where we cooked on an old yellow 1940 stove and ate on a vintage ceramic table. 

A few weeks later we walked into 6,000 square  feet of luxury: 8 baths, 5 bedrooms, a 4,000 bottle wine cellar, mirrored gym, heated salt-water swimming pool, and a six car garage occupied by three original Shelby Cobra sport cars, a Jaguar, and an Aston Martin...(poor Zoom had piston envy).  We’ve loved being in both homes.

Although the benefits are great, so are the responsibilities.  Cats are quick and can scurry out the door in a flash.  Six-thousand feet is a lot of hiding space for a clever cat. (She was under the couch and just ignored our frantic calls of “Here kitty…kitty”).  A dog’s paw suddenly bleeds on the silk carpet.  Should we spend the $150 for a visit to the vet?  (Yes.)  Lucy, the crab won’t eat and the “How to Care for your Pet Crab” manual doesn’t help.  (Crabs don’t eat much). Murphy, the big Tom cat, won’t come out from under the bed.  Why?  (The owner forgot to tell us that he doesn’t like men).

Alex and I are careful but things occasionally break.  A dish.  A glass.  And our hearts when we hear that one of our temporary “Charges” has died during the winter.

A friend once asked us, “Why would you leave your lovely home in La Paz to go sleep in someone else’s bed?”  Maybe it’s because my mother never allowed my sisters and me to borrow anything.  Not from her, not from each other and not from friends. 

Now I’m still reluctant to borrow a sweater from a friend but I’m thrilled at the chance to borrow a home.  Or perhaps I’m still a child who loves to play house.  Possibly it’s because every summer Alex and I jump into a rabbit-hole and pop out the other side never knowing what new adventure awaits us.

La Marmolera Restaurant Review

La Marmolera is a treasure that La Paz is quickly discovering. 

I‘ve been away from Mexico for eight months and La Marmolera was the first restaurant friends took me to when I arrived in La Paz.  I’ve returned three times.  Today I brought my friend, Ana Hall, with me.  Ana’s parents are Mexican and she was raised around good Mexican food.  

La Marmolera is located on Cuahtemoc between Serdan and G. Prieto.  Here are easy directions:  Take 5 de February (driving away from the bay).  Turn right immediately after the huge church Santuario de Guadalupe. Turn left at the next corner (Cuauhtemoc).  La Marmolera is on the right side of the street.  Notice the large antique metal sign on the front.

As if announcing our arrival, the church bells rang as we entered through the large metal gate.  We immediately felt like we’d walked into a lovely oasis.  Lush foliage, large umbrellas, and a beautiful pond create an outdoor eating space appropriate for any season.  Soft music harmonized with the sound of gently cascading water.  Tables are placed so intimate conversation is possible and other diners appeared happy and relaxed.

Blanca, the owner, greeted us with a warm smile and led us to an immaculate glass table.  We hung our purses on a “purse tree” and Ana ordered tea and that’s when the fun started.  Her eyes grew huge as Selina, our server, brought a Chinese style black tea pot and an ornate glass (similar to those used in The Middle East).  Ana could barely wait the four minutes for the tea to seep.  She sipped and smiled.

Meanwhile I used the well-equipped clean bathroom and was surprised and embarrassed when I noticed that I’d used the men’s room.  Oops.

We sampled nine dishes and they all had these qualities in common:

Servings were very generous and dishes were attractively presented.  None of the food appeared greasy.  Mushrooms were fresh and had an earthy flavor.  (Their flavor came through the sauces and crema).  Only breast meat was used in the chicken dishes.  Chicken looked and tasted fresh without a hint of fat, skin, or

gristle.   The salads appeared fresh and crisp.  Most recipes originate in Mainland Mexico.

Machaca del Rancho (home-made dried, shredded beef) is fluffy and not greasy.

Huaraches are the size of a young woman’s sandals and piled high with chicken, mushroom or nopal and generous enough for two people to share.

Chilaquiles Bandera with chicken were crispy. The red sauce had a deep and complex flavor and the green sauce placed a pleasant pucker on my lips.

If I had to choose three favorites, I’d pick the Enmoladas (corn tortillas folded over shredded chicken and bathed with home-made aromatic mole, the Gorditas de Chilorio (a Sinoloa style sausage that’s full of flavor and just the perfect amount of spice), and Bacoles de Requeson (fried dough balls stuffed with requeson cheese). This dish was delicate and stuffed with a ricotta-style cheese.

Blanca told us that the Ahogados (two poached eggs served in a bowl of tomato sauce) is a favorite with Mexican diners but neither Ana nor I are egg aficionados.  The thin tomato sauce tasted fresh and when we poked the eggs they weren’t too loose or overcooked.  

The wait staff:  Selena, Denis and Yessica are observant and attentive.  The chef, Neftali, and his team are eager to please and willing to adapt for special diets, if possible.

Blanca knew she wanted to own a restaurant when she was in high school, and when she and her husband left Guadalajara and moved to La Paz in 1990, her dream started to take form.  La Marmolera (named in honor of the marble workshop that existed on the site) opened five years ago and has slowly evolved until today it is an inviting garden protected from the elements where people can relax and enjoy a meal, a glass of tea, or a cup of coffee (La Choya beans are freshly ground for each cup).  Both coffee and tea are served with complimentary home-made coffee cake. 

Blanca hopes to enlarge the kitchen in order to offer more dessert options.  Until that happens, order tea or coffee then save a bite of Blanca’s home-made cake (if you have that much self-control) and you’ll have a perfect sweet finish to your meal.

Breakfast is served Monday through Saturday from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.

Mid-day meal served from 1:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.  $70 pesos includes soup, salad, a pitcher of fruit water and a choice of either meat, chicken, fish or vegetable- based dish.

Sunday 8:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.

Prices are under $100 pesos (Visa and M/C accepted) and considering the fresh home-made ingredients and quantity of the food (they put Mexican traditional dishes through the American Super- Size machine), you will become a repeat a customer. 

This family-based restaurant has grown and become popular with Mexicans and Extranjeros alike who appreciate a liquor-free, non-smoking environment.  Each time I’ve gone, Mexicans outnumber foreigners ten to one but after this review, that ratio is likely to change. 

While Ana and I were eating, Susan and Dennis arrived.  They often choose La Marmolera because they like the flavor, the quality, and, since they are business owners with busy schedules, they appreciate the efficiency and service.

In addition to the food, the service and the atmosphere, I was also surprised with a couple of things that most people might not notice.  The silverware is heavy and sturdy – I like that.  The coffee can be made to order (I prefer a double shot of coffee, a tiny bit of milk and lots of foam), and they offer freshly made decaf coffee, also. 

When you visit La Marmolera, relax and get ready to enjoy a typical Mexican meal and please take a look in the pond.  I hope you’ll smile like I did.

La Marmolera Fonda & Café

Cuauhtemoc between Serdan and G. Prieto, La Paz

Reservations accepted  128-6337

lamarmoleralapaz@yahoo.com.mx

Ramblings...Bank Day

My hands are still shaking.  Thirty minutes ago I was stabbed dozens of times.  It happened at the local bank.

 “Going to the Bank Day” happens once a month for our family and I always seem to wake up grumpy that day.  But my 14 years of banking in La Paz didn’t prepare me for what happened today. 

 I walked  to 16 de Septembre  to exchange dollars for pesos.  When I approached the bank, the line was snaking out the door.  Holy cow.  I’d forgotten that Monday and Tuesday were bank holidays and now everyone was playing catch up.  What was I thinking?  But we NEEDED to pay the masons who were working at our house so I saw no escape. 

Before we left for the summer our bank gave us a Preferred Client card which means that instead of waiting in a long line with the crowd, we’re granted speedy service by a special teller.  I was excited about using this card for the first time today but things went very wrong. 

I stood at the door of the bank and scanned the room for the Preferred Client line but couldn’t see it so I walked by all the waiting people.  And that’s when I felt it.  The first stab.

I could feel her eyes pierce my spine.  Other eyes joined in. I looked at the floor and kept walking but I couldn’t find the Preferred Client sign!  I turned and hurried toward the exit.  Was it my imagination or were people gloating? 

I stood at the end of the line for five minutes and calculated that it would be a two hour wait. I took a deep breath and again walked past the waiting crowd.  I finally found the Preferred line.  Only one man in line ahead of me.  But instead of relief, my stomach felt like I’d eaten a bad taco.

The teller told me that in order to exchange dollars into pesos, I’d have to deposit the dollars and then I could immediately withdraw pesos.  I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for banking procedures in Mexico but they make no sense to this older American woman.

 I handed the teller my bank card, he looked at the computer, then at the card, and finally at me.  He said, “I’m sorry but your card has been frozen”. 

Greeks don’t blush – we don’t have the needed pigmentation - but I could feel something akin to a hot flash wash over my face. 

“Por que?”  I whispered.  He pointed to the manager’s office.  I walked up seven steps and met a gentleman who was texting on his cell phone.  His office had a view of the entire line of waiting clients.  I felt like we were living a Greek tragedy. 

He took my card and looked at the computer.  He went downstairs and came back with a new ATM card.  He disappeared again and this time he returned with a big shiny box containing three Teflon cooking pots.  He handed the box to me and said, “This is for you.”  For the second time in five minutes I said, “Por que?”

He answered, “For the deposit you just made”.  Not only had I skipped to the front of the line, now everyone knew I’d made a deposit worthy of a gift.

He reached for my hand, thanked me and, as I stood at the top of the stairs, I felt the crowd demanding my blood. How many people in that long line would be thrilled to have this box?  I felt like confessing, “Honest, I just deposited the money for 15 seconds then I withdrew it.  I didn’t do anything special.” Do they know that I don’t need nor want three new pots and that I will give them to the woman who cleans my house?  I swallowed a cocktail of guilt and shame and felt each set of eyes take a stab at the Preferred status I know I don’t deserve. 

I carried the damn box fifteen blocks and with each step it felt heavier.  I staggered through our front door and told Alex that I’m never going to the bank again.  Ever!  I’m afraid.  I imagine a paranoid future where I imagine people are staring at me and I’ll assume they were in the bank that day and I’ll feel  their anger pierce my thinly coated Teflon heart.

I visited a friend and whined that I have two women who help me in the house.  Which one should I give the gift to?  She asked me to wait a minute, left the room and returned carrying an armful of black fabric.  She said, “Next month when you go to the bank wear this.”  I unfolded a burka.  

So, if you happen to go to the bank and see a short woman covered head to foot in black, and if she’s walking away from the Preferred Client line, and happens to have a box-like shape, it’s just this older American woman carrying away another box of Teflon pots.

Returning to La Paz

Every October it’s the same.  I try.  Really, I do.  I force myself to stay in my seat with my seatbelt securely fastened until we come to a full and complete stop but then I’m infected with group hysteria.   I jump up, hit my head on the overhead compartment and the jolt reminds me that pushing won’t help.  I see a few passengers still seated.  They look so relaxed but I’m positive they’re so self- medicated that they couldn’t bolt if they wanted to.  But for the rest of us – we want OFF now. 

I adore deplaning in La Paz.  I love standing at the exit door at the top of the stairs and taking my first breath of Mexican air. …a combination of jet fuel, dust and a few particles of solar magic.   I’ve never fallen down the stairs but I worry about it any way.  Until recently I was concerned about bruising my ego but now I don’t want to break anything - like an arm or the perfect set of espresso cups I stashed in my carry-on.

Every year I say to Alex, “Let’s not unpack; let’s just go walk on the Malecon”.  And every year he says, “Okay”.  But, even though he agrees, we find ourselves unpacking until there’s stuff covering every surface in the house and we’re too tired to decide where one more thing needs to go and then he says, “I’m hungry…… Rancho Viejo”?  I say, “Let’s walk.” And he looks like I’ve stabbed him with his own dinner fork but he knows how much I need to stroll the Malecon so we pull on our tennis shoes.

Saturday is a perfect evening to return to L a Paz.  Parents, children,  lovers with Super Glued lips, and older couples holding hands  compete for sidewalk space with joggers, bicyclists, in-line skaters and both street and pure-bred dogs.  Great blue herons observe the action from pogo stick legs.

For the first time in four months we run into friends.  They describe the stifling La Paz summer but they don’t know I’ve endured a friendless summer. I can’t let go of their hugs.

We hear more music (live and recorded) during our walk to Rancho Viejo than we’ve heard all summer:  Tailhunter, Bismark’s, Adrianna’s, Kiwi, the Kiosk, Jungle…you get the picture.   My steps match the beat and our “stroll” becomes an aerobic workout.    I feel justified to eat with gusto:  three greasy flour tortillas piled high with tender arranchera beef and a tall glass of  tangy jamica.  I wash my hands in the well worn shallow pink cement sink and try to remember what possessed us to fly north in June.

Our evening walk and our dinner has satiated us so we ignore our suitcases, take showers and stretch out on our own bed for the first time in months. I squish my pillow just right and close my eyes.  Can I be any happier?  

Then I hear it.  The music that made me smile an hour ago sounds like it’s right outside my window.  Cars are whizzing by.  Dogs are barking.  And car alarms are blaring.  There’s another sound, too.   I look over and, illuminated by the streetlight, I see that Alex’s eyes are closed and his mouth is open.   He’s snoring!   I try lying very still.  I turn.  I thrash.  I head for the medicine cabinet and remember the zoned out passengers on the plane.  I want one of their pills but I have nothing stronger than a Benadril.   I swallow one and wait for sleep.  The last time I look at the clock it’s 3:45.  

At 7:15 Trinidad, the newspaper hawker blares by.  And, as he invites me to buy the newspaper ahorita ahorita, I recall that, what seems like ages ago, I wrote a piece for the Baja Citizen complaining about the quiet in Escondido.  I grin, pull on a pair of shorts from my “give away pile”, take my cup of espresso to the patio and imagine that the sparrows are squawking about our return.  Ahorita, ahorita…my day has started.

A Novel Approach

She said I’d adore it. But I’m a person that loves to postpone gratification so I held off until I was tingling with excitement. I changed into something comfortable, poured myself a tiny glass of sherry, and began.  I was into it for about twenty minutes and… I hated it.  Was I being too hasty?  I’d give it a few more minutes.  Nope.  Absolutely detested it.  “How could she like this?” I asked myself.  I got up and paced.   I picked up the phone to call her but I didn’t want to hurt her feeling – this was the first time she’d steered me wrong.  When I’m frustrated chocolate always helps so I slammed the novel shut, threw it on the coffee table and headed for my secret chocolate stash.

I love to read but not this sentimental patriotic junk. But my mind kept whispering, “Aren’t you overacting just a teeny bit, Judy?  Put down the chocolate and let’s explore why you’re so angry”.

Brief storyline:  Young beautiful Iranian woman goes to The United States on a three month visa looking for a man to marry so she can remain in the country…and she falls in love with the American people and freedom they have. She meets the man of her dreams but there’s only one problem – he’s not Iranian.  After several misunderstandings rooted in cultural differences and fear of her parents’ reactions, she realizes that the handsome barista is her destiny.

Simple enough formula:  desire – obstacles – resolution.  No reason to feel so disgusted.

What didn’t seem fair (that four letter “F” word frequently used by the naive) was that the author described Iran as a terrible place and America as perfect.  I know.  I know.  Authors write for their readers and every writer hopes to publish so, in this case, she was trying to tempt English speakers to buy her book. But my gut told me that she was pandering to a blindly patriotic audience and I would have no part in it. 

Then I thought of my parents. They were born and grew up in Greece and, when they had the opportunity, they left.  My mother had seen American movies of leading ladies wearing gowns and furs and so, being a poor village girl, she used her small savings to have a satin apricot colored gown sewn for the dances she imagined she would attend aboard the ship. She didn’t know that even if she hadn’t been seasick the entire voyage, she wouldn’t have been allowed to join the first class passengers.  She might have had second thoughts about her dream when, once they arrived in New York, my father brought her to live on the lower East Side in a cold water, walk-up flat where they shared the toilet with three families. Although they recognized the positive and negatives of both countries, when they were financially able, they never returned to visit Greece; they vacationed in Hawaii instead.  Hmmm.

My husband and I left The States willingly.  We wanted a better and different life.  My husband isn’t naïve – he sees the problems of both countries. But I’m absolutely defensive about Mexico.  I don’t want to hear anything negative about it.  However, I often complain about the problems that exist in the country where I was born.

Click.  I sound amazingly like the protagonist of the novel that my friend loaned me.  I see everything right about Mexico. I love the freedom I have to walk the Malecon late at night and watch the families laugh and play with their children.  I enjoy the music of Mexico and the food.  I’m still amazed that we can sit in a restaurant for hours and not be handed the check until we ask for it.  I even love that when I’ve been stopped for a driving infraction I’m able to drive away with a warning and a five minute Spanish lesson instead of a ticket.  

If I can see the positives of my life in Mexico, why shouldn’t a fictional character love her adopted country?  Why am I allowed to see the negatives of my birth country but the novel’s heroin shouldn’t?  She and I are emotional twins who enjoy cultural change. 

It took me three days and six bars of Trader Joes 75% dark chocolate to finally find peace.  I opened the novel and started over and this time I laughed and empathized with the protagonist.  And when I finished the book, I called my friend and thanked her for loaning me the novel because it isn’t often that a simple story challenges us to wrestle with our beliefs and win.

Ramblings of an Older American Woman About Camping

Greeks don't go camping.  My mother came from a poor fishing village on the Adriatic and my father was born high in the mountains near the Albanian border.  Shortly after they married, they sailed to America seeking a better life.  Sleeping on the ground, cooking over a wood fire, using outdoor plumbing, and taking cold showers were not what they considered a better life.

Our family had lots of friends - Greeks, Italians, Albanians and Americans (We considered anyone who spoke only English "American").  None of our friends from the Old Country camped but at least they understood the basic concepts of picnicking.  My parents attended English school but "Going on a Picnic" must not have been on the syllabus.

On a hot Sunday in July six cars met in front of our house in Boston.  Chairs, blankets, coolers and kids slathered in Coppertone were loaded onto roomy backseats.  We created a long chain of cars heading to the country.  This was my first picnic.  I was eight.  We kids ran into the water while the adults carried the supplies to the picnic area.  Back and forth the men went until the cars were as empty as our stomachs.  Hunger struck as soon as we smelled the charcoal fire and as we headed to the picnic tables, I noticed that something was very wrong with my family. 

My friends' parents wore shorts and sandals; my mother wore a dress, stockings and high heels.  My father wore black slacks, a white shirt (but no tie) and a straw fedora.  Other families had hot dogs or hamburgers sizzling on the grill.  My mother smirked when she placed a huge pan of pre-cooked leg of lamb stuffed with garlic and lamb infused potatoes and onions on the grill.  My father sliced the lamb thinly and insisted that our friends have a taste.  Meanwhile, I loaded up on hotdogs, potato salad and a big sliced of shame.

When the cars were repacked with left over food, chairs coolers and sleepy kids, my mother said, "All the lamb, potatoes and onions are gone".  Greeks know how to picnic.  In fact, we invented picnics?"  (According to my mother, everything good in the world was invented in Greece).  They never understood my attraction to the American style picnic.  But age and a subscription to Sunset Magazine have helped me appreciate that my parents knew something I didn't about picnics.

And this may be one of the many reasons I feel so at home in Mexico.  Mexicans also know how to picnic.  Six years ago, our friends, Irma and Ricardo invited us to drive into the mountains near San Antonio for a picnic.  I baked a cake and bought four steaks to share with them but when they drove up to our house fate was ready to teach me a lesson.  Instead of just Irma and Ricardo, six adults and two children greeted us with hugs.  Irma wore slacks and her mother wore a dress.  The daughters wore jeans.  Alex and I were the only ones in shorts.  My heart sank when I realized that the small honey cake and four filetes I'd brought weren't enough to share with everybody.  We drove for three hours and I worried most of that time.  But my stress was needless.  They unpacked tables, chairs, and two huge coolers.  Irma covered every inch of the table with carene asada, frijoles, aroz, ensalada, chilis to roast over the fire, tortillas, an entire watermelon and a big bottle of tequilla.  No hot dogs - no potato salad but food enough to feed 25 people.  They said that my cake was delicious and I felt like the American in the Movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding.  We ate, laughed talked and snoozed.

On our drive back to La Paz we passed many families picnicking under shade trees.  I was so happy that I suggested we go back to our beautiful area but instead of a picnic I said "Let's camp" just like my Greek family, Ricardo and Irma were too polite to say  "Are you crazy? Why would we want to sleep on the ground and have no running water"?  But I could read those words in Irma and, her mother Socorro's eyes. They were my family incarnate.  And as I gave them a big hug, I felt like I was home.

Older not Old

When we moved to La Paz fourteen years ago, I was 51.  I wasn’t OLDER then but I did notice La Paz was full of older Ex-pats and even a few really, truly Old people.  Generally, I hung out with others my age.  We studied Spanish, we learned to paint and we planned parties. For the last thirteen years eight women friends and I have met for breakfast every week.  We share secrets and concerns.  We gossip.  We talk politics.  But mostly we chat.  Often everyone talks at once. 

Last month I was in the kitchen putting the final touches on Huevos Rancheros and I heard a rare thing - absolute silence.  I rushed into the dining room. 

“What’s wrong?”  I asked.    Everyone was looking at Sandra.  

 “I just said that now that I’m old, I’m not going to wear shorts anymore”. 

Seven voices corrected, “You mean OLDER”. 

She replied, “No, I mean OLD”.  Sandra is one year older than I am. 

“Are you sick?  Are you depressed?  Did you have an argument with Steve?” we asked.

 She said, “No” to each question. 

“You have almost no wrinkles and your boobs are perky”, a friend reasoned, “so you’re not old”.  The only question we didn’t ask her was, “How do you know that you’re old?”

The eight of us have grown older together but Sandra has entered Taboo territory.  Janice told me that she had a nightmare that she woke up “old”.  And I did a foolish thing.  I put a mirror flat on the table and dared to look down at my face (do not try this at home).   We agreed that, even thought we knew that we’d be old someday, we aren’t now.  But would we know it when it happened to us?  How could a person tell?   Is the solution hidden behind the cataracts of our resistance? 

Oh, we kid about being forgetful. Every day I receive at least one e-mail joke about aging.  Some of us can’t eat salt.  Or fatty meat.  Most take pills.   Others prick their fingers every day and then celebrate the results with a glass of red wine. Chocolate helps.  And so does plastic surgery.  Having a man smile at you can do wonders, also. 

I read an article claiming that when a man we’ve never met enters a room, women’s posture changes. They sit up straighter.  They lift their breasts and hold in their tummies.  It doesn’t matter if the women are married or single. Could this be one of the keys?  Do OLD women take no note when a guy comes into the room?  Perhaps we become OLD when we have no interest in impressing the opposite sex?

Like Sandra, I no longer wear shorts in public but not because I’m old….it’s because I have old knees.  I also have old arm.  But they are only a small part of me….my mind, enthusiasm, and my sense of adventure is not old.  Not yet.

 I wish there was an appropriate and polite way of asking people, “Do you consider yourself older or old?”

And if they answer, “I’m old”, I would ask, “How did you know when you slipped from one to the other”? Who knows, maybe people would like the opportunity to talk about this forbidden subject.     

Learning To Swim

How is it possible that a 65 year old woman, who’s been living one block from the Bay of La Paz for fourteen years, and who has owned a boat most of her married life, is a terrible swimmer?  Last year I decided to learn to swim – properly.

I still remember the frigid Atlantic.  But the huge waves never kept my friends and me out of the water. Our lips turned blue, our teeth chattered and our mothers waved their arms and I imaged them saying, “If you kids don’t get out of that water right this minute, we’ll leave you at home the next time we come to the beach!”  But kids are deaf when they’re having fun.  Plus, we weren’t within grabbing distance.  With the exception of Shirley Winters, I never saw any woman go into the water deeper than her ankles.  They’d stand in the shallow water with blood red toe nails twinkling like minnows.    Talking and watching.  Guarding their children from disaster.  Could they swim?  Or save us?  I never thought to ask but now I believe they served as sentries; their job was to warn:  “Don’t go any deeper…look at the wave behind you….are you cold?  Okay, five more minutes”…and, ”Don’t think I’m going to take care of you if you catch pneumonia”. We ignored them. Only the aroma of almost burned hot dogs enticed us back onto dry land.

But Shirley was different.  She had no children to guard.  She’d walk right into that icy water, cut through a wave and bob up on the other side of it.  She’s swim fast and far. I watched and worried.  Who could save Shirley?  I would.  But first I needed to learn to swim. One day I asked her, “Shirley, how long can you hold your breath?”  She answered, “Judy, Lesson one:  take a deep breath, relax, and put you face into the water…I’ll hold you”.   Lesson two: Floating face down.  Lesson three:  Kicking. But a chubby Greek girl’s genes aren’t made for kicking.  My Mediterranean butt made it impossible to keep my legs from sinking.  Shirley would yell, “Kick.  Kick”.  But my kicks never produced a splash.  Lesson four:  Moving arms.  Lesson Five:  Putting It All Together -  Floating face down, (for now forget about your sinking legs) move your arms like this and turn your head from side to side.” I got dizzy. Shirley sighed.  Then she smiled.  “Judy, turn onto your back, relax and kick”.  It worked.  My toes splashed water onto my chest.  I was moving.  Later, she said, “Now move your arms like windmills going backwards”.  I was swimming.  And for fifty four years I swam that way.  But swimming on my back presented several problems.  I’d often smash my head into the end of the pool because I had no way to judge how close I was to the edge.  Also, because my right arm is stronger than the left, I swam in circles.

Last year I decided to learn to swim properly.  I bought goggles. I observed Marilyn.  She takes long slow strokes and makes tiny splashes with her feet, keeps her face in the water for four strokes, gently turns her head to the right, takes a breath, then returns her face to the water.  Back and forth for thirty minutes without stopping.  She isn’t breathless when she leaves the water.  I tried to copy.  I was aerobic within 5 seconds.  I swallowed salt.  They say the Sea of Cortez is so salty it’s like a natural floatation device but Marilyn suggested a pool might be safer.   I drank chlorine.  But I tried over and over. 

I’ll be sixty six in September.  I’ve learned that swimming, like learning a second language, comes easier before the age of ten. I now accept tools that make life easier.  So, if you see an older woman swimming face down at Costa Baja’s pool, if  her legs are dragging the bottom, if she’s wearing a mask, a snorkel and a yellow life preserver…and if she’s swimming in circles, don’t call the life guard; it’s just me. 

Shopping In The North

For the last two months we’ve been vacationing in the United States – also known as the Land of Return Anything …No Questions Asked.  And, like all good tourists, we’ve abandoned our diets, visited museums, and we’ve Shopped.   We’ve bought cheap jeans, $120 tennis shoes, vitamins, a Home Depot light fixture and, for my birthday - a Mazda Miata. The Miata tops the list of my Best Buys but not all of our choices have been so wise - for example we bought a gas bar-b-que, Trader Joe’s Lime & Chile Mixed Nuts and an Italian-Stove Top-12 cup-Stainless Steel-Espresso Maker.

During the summer we house sit in The States but we own a cute house in La Paz, Mexico.  It has a tiny back patio and an outdoor kitchen which keeps our house cool and odor free.  We have no room for a bar-b-que on that patio.   So, Alex wedged the big box back into the Miata’s adorable little trunk and I prepared my “Why I’d Like to Return This” speech.  I approached the clerk – sales slip in hand and I said, “I’d like to return this because…”  He picked up a telephone and said, “Manager, to the front, please”. My heart constricted.  The Manager appeared and I began explaining again but he interrupted, “Do you want an exchange or refund?”  “Refund, please” and I resumed my speech because, after all, it was a good one.  He handed me the money, smiled and said, “I believe you”.  It was that easy.

In Mexico the experience would have been different.  A few years ago we decided to buy a gas kitchen stove.  We drove to the local appliance store, pondered which of their three models we wanted, packed one into our Blazer, paid someone to install it, and prepared to roast a chicken.  I put my hand on the temperature knob and froze.  The dial was there but there were no numbers.  I looked more carefully.  In place of numbers I found the English equivalent of Low, Medium, and High.  How can you bake without numbers?  Impossible.  Alex disconnected the stove; wrestled it back into the Blazer, and drove back to the stove.  I handed the sales receipt to the formally friendly sales clerk and said in my best Spanish, “There are no numbers so we need to return the stove”.   Mr. Hyde scowled, “No refunds allowed.  Didn’t you see that the model doesn’t have numbers?  You should have bought the more expensive model; that one has numbers”.   I explained that we’d be happy to exchange the numberless model for the more expensive one – with numbers.  He called over three men who talked and shook their heads.  After an hour of frustrating negotiations, we drove home with an oven that has number but in the end, those numbers are only a vague representation of: Low, Medium and High.  However, we did learn to be careful before we buy anything in La Paz because the rules say “no sales slip – no refund”

My favorite market In the States is Trader Joe’s.  I love the tiny cups of free coffee.   I’m awed by the purple haired and tattooed personnel.  I buy 99 cent greeting cards and $14.99 orchids.  Waiting in line at the checkout, I always salivate at the chocolate choices.  Last week I selected a No-Sugar Added Chocolate bar and asked, “Can I return, if I don’t like it?”  I carefully watched the ringed tongue lisp, “Of course”.  The chocolate was great but I made a painful error when I put a cute little green chili into my mouth that was hiding in the bag of nuts. Nothing but time put out the fire.   The following day I returned the nuts.  Without the sales slip.  No problem.  They never asked for one. I wanted to describe the agony I experienced but by the time I was ¾ of the way through, I had received my money and an apology.

And finally, my latest hand-wringing, much researched choice to purchase an Italian made, Stainless Steel, stove top, 12 cup Espresso maker. I ordered over the internet then I waited. I anticipated the taste of the strong coffee we’d soon be drinking.  Finally the box appeared.   It felt like Christmas.  I read the instruction in English and Spanish.  I ground the beans.  I used bottled water. I turned the burner on low.  Just as promised steam escaped the release valve.  The problem was that a small amount of water was squeezing out where the top and bottom units connected.  I reread the instruction.   I screwed the two parts tighter.  Same problem.   I e-mailed the company asking for suggestions.  Neil instructed me to send the machine back.  I wrote again and asked about shipping charges.  “We’ll refund them”.  I wrote a third time, “Gee, Neil, I don’t know if I can go 5-7 business days drinking the weak coffee that the home owner’s machine brews”.  He wrote, “Okay, Judy, use the first machine until the new one arrives then send the original back”.  I think Neil and I have become buddies.   I wait for the UPS truck confident that if this machine isn’t satisfactory, I can return it.  I walked back into the house humming, “Everything’s Returnable in Amereeeeca” from The West Side Story.

I don’t need to leave Mexico to go to great museums.  And I can gain weight without crossing the border.  But customer service in the States is …different. So, as I plan our next shopping expedition, I realize that vacations are about doing things that you don’t do at home.  And, for this Older Woman Living in Mexico, being able to return my mistakes is an exciting adventure.

 

First Love

The love affair started when he was just a boy.  Her aroma intoxicated him; he said that she smelled like honey and he loved her taste.   She was thin and pale and Alex would do anything to be with her - even lie to his mother. He’d sneak out of his house to spend five minutes with her.  He felt like an adult and used her to impress friends.  He grew up. We met and married, but the affair continued. Old movies taught that a good woman’s love could save a bad boy.  They lied. She was demanding and expensive; through guilt stained teeth he promised to leave her but it never lasted.  Alex was totally hooked on cigarettes. 

I refused to share my home with her so when we lived in Boston stood outside puffing his way through snowstorms; he smoked in our Minnesota garage during minus 30 degree winters and the  rain of Vancouver had him huddled under our overhang.  Through cold, snow and rain he smoked outdoors while I stayed warm and smoldering indoors.

Fourteen years ago we bought a small house in La Paz. The climate is almost perfect.  We tossed out ties and pantyhose and threw open doors and windows.  Paradise?  Not quite.

Our patio is tiny and walled.  Our bedroom is within puffing range.  Each morning I woke to the stench of cigarettes. Paradise is gardenias not Marlboros.   I complained.  I nagged.  I begged.  Finally, I closed the doors and windows.  Once again I stayed indoors while Alex spent most of his days on our patio watering plants, reading, enjoying the weather and smoking. 

All that changed four years ago when Alex got pneumonia. Trying to smoke became so painful it was like swallowing a volcano. He quit.  He now claims he hates the smell of tobacco.  I’m thrilled.  For his health.  For the money we save.  And because I no longer smell Marlboros 50 times a day.  I love our patio filled with flowers, hummingbirds and, in the evenings, the kissing sound of geckos. But it’s odd how unexpectedly things work out.  Most of the time I’m alone.  Alex stays indoors using the computer or reading.  He says that it’s so sunny that the glare gives him a headache.

Is he avoiding me? No, he’s happy when we’re inside reading or chatting. It was in deference to me that he spent his time outdoors and I appreciate it.  So while Alex waters the flowers that I get to enjoy, I take pleasure in his company until he turns off the hose and goes back indoors.  As I sit alone on the patio I accept the vow he’s made; when he gets terminally ill, he’ll reach into the back of his closet, pull out the ancient pack of Marlboros, inhale deeply, and rekindle the affair that started long before we met.

Housesitting in the States

For the past three Summers I’ve been house sitting in Escondido, CA.  The beautiful house sits on three acres packed with colorful flowers, orange, apple, peach and fig trees.   There’s a housekeeper and a gardener.  I feed and brush the two large dogs. It’s very quiet here.    

In La Paz, Mexico roosters and church bells are my alarm clocks. Trinidad, the newspaper hawker drives by at 7 o’clock in his old van with a loud speaker. Neighbors play Ranchero music.  I shake these old hips in a Gringo version of Salsa.   Mothers walk their children to school and say, “Hola, Senora”.    Mexico is a country full of sounds.

In Escondido the only sounds I hear are crows, lawn mowers, and the click-click of dog’s nails on the wood floors.  I’m suffering from “Too Much Quiet”…sometimes called Loneliness or Boredom.

I daily walk passed huge homes with lawns mowed in straight lines.  I don’t see kids. I did see a basketball hoop above a garage door (which was probably against the CC& Rs) but no children.  I’ve glimpsed enormous motor homes behind fences.  Do the home owners long for human contact?  Do they leave their large homes to wedge themselves into camp sites?  Is it possible their temporary neighbors will offer them coffee.  Perhaps their kids will play ball together. I wish I had my pup tent.  I’d take the dogs camping.  We’d tent close to a family. We might overhear them talk.  Or watch them play a game.  Maybe I’d offer them coffee.

Walking Sunday morning I passed a woman wearing a long beige skirt and heels.  She said “hello”.   Had she been to church?  People gather there to listen to something uplifting.  They sing.  And afterward have coffee. It’s called “Fellowship”.  Instead of camping…maybe I’ll try church. 

Huffing up a hill, I noticed a weathered sign, “Lost Parrot.  Reward.”  And a phone number.  The same sign was there last year.  Have they found their pet and neglected to remove the sign?   I have a talkative umbrella cockatoo.   When I walk with Howlie in La Paz, locals ask “How much did she cost?  Where do you live?”  Afraid that someone might steal Howlie, I lie.  “She was a gift. I live over there” as I wave my arm in an arc.    I have empathy for owners of missing birds.  Maybe, instead of going camping or going to church, I’ll call and ask if the bird was found.  Who knows?  They might invite me over for coffee and we can talk about parrots.

 I thought of how quiet it is in Escondido, empty streets, hidden motor homes, lost parrots, Mexican roosters, church bells, salsa music, Trinidad’s loud speaker. And as I neared the house, I realized I was no longer bored; I was playing with ideas and getting ready to write this piece.  Maybe I don’t need to camp, join a church or call the parrot person - I just need to write.  It’s so much easier in Escondido because it’s quiet enough that I can actually hear myself think.