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.