In The Beginning...

She was taught that “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  And He saw that it was good.”  Gen. 1:1. 

The earth was covered with water until He caused dry land and mountains to rise up.  The barren ground seemed like a blank canvas so He painted a landscape and blew life into it.  Satisfied, He rested.  Although He enjoyed watching the wind blow through the trees, He wanted to see more movement so He formed fish, flying creatures and animals.  Then God came up with a brilliant plan.  Animal life would inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide.  Plant life would absorb carbon dioxide and release oxygen.  A perfect balance. And He saw that it was good.

Then things got messed up.  Somehow the food chain appeared.  Life forms began to kill and eat one another.  Fear and violence were the natural by-products of this system.  Man invented war, in part, to obtain land and a steady food supply.  And man said, “The food chain is good because we’re at the top of it.”

Many years later, in a tiny corner of the Baja, an older woman battled with depression. 

Forty five years earlier, she was an innocent city girl with her head stuck firmly in the concrete sidewalks of Boston.  She’d marvel at the pretty birds and lady bugs – until she married a farm boy who (she later learned) knew how to wring a chicken’s neck and set a fish hook. 

One day she pointed to the sky and said, “Look at the beautiful raven.”  He answered, “Did you know that they rob eggs out of nests and eat them?”  Did he notice her tears?

 Years later she looked toward the Bay of La Paz, “Did you see the fish jump?”  He replied, “They’re jumping because bigger fish are attacking them.”  She felt as if he’d stuck a hook through her heart.

“Honey, the strong kill the weak.  That’s nature.  It’s been that way since the beginning of time.” 

Where once she observed beauty, she now saw violence.  Her mind understood but her more gentle nature resisted.

Then one morning her husband walked into their kitchen and saw his wife contemplating a cockroach.  He walked over and smashed it like a bug. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“He was afraid.  I could see it in his eyes.”

Her husband shook his head and suggested that she start taking Prozac again.

And so (maybe in a drug-induced state) one night she dreamed up an almost perfect solution to the violent nature of life. In her dream, time flew backwards.  Before the Irish potato famine, before Aztec human sacrifices, before the locust plague of Egypt, and even before the time God approved of Abel’s slaughtering his little lamb as a sacrifice.  Back.  Back. Back.  To immediately before the existence of insects, fish, birds or animal life.

In her dream God was a woman!  Inside Her factory prototypes of new and improved models of earthly creatures were being assembled.  Into each still-lifeless chest a tender heart was placed.  When the switch of life was flipped, compassion flowed along with oxygen-rich blood.  A deluxe-model brain with the ability (and the will) to solve problems in a peaceful manner was inserted into the head.  And a new super-size sophisticated respiratory system was placed in the body.  What was missing was – the entire digestive system. From the simplest to the most highly developed creature, life would rely on oxygen for nutrition.

She interrupted her own dream to protest, “But I love to eat.  What about going out to restaurants with friends?”

“Simple”, her kinder self replied. “Visualize joining friends for a private French feast.  You’re in the Baja but the restaurant resembles a countryside chateau.  You sit on tastefully decorated sofas.  The waiter takes your order and the French doors close. You notice the aroma of fresh wildflowers, ripe grapes and a hint of sun-kissed clover.  You close your eyes, relax and breathe deeply.  Conversation is rich and satisfying. At the end of the evening, you pay the check.  Prices depend on the quantity and quality of French air inhaled. 

“Think of it”, her creative side said.  “There could be All-You-Can-Breathe buffets.  Pick a country.  Located at each chair is a machine that looks like an i-Pod.  Dial the air you want to breathe.  At your side are tiny oxygen-carrying nozzles.   You want Maui beach air?  Select #7.  Your husband wants the Alps with a side of Chinese?  Easy – that’s #12 and #37.”

In her dream she designed the typical home.  Family room, bedrooms and the rooms used for cleansing the body (the bath room).  No kitchen.  No greasy stove.  No dining room. No smelly toilets.   Large windows to let in air.  Pollution a problem?  Although air purifiers do the trick, the environment is protected as if lives depend on it because – because they do. 

Picture it:  tiny grocery stores…just cleaning supplies and air filters.  When you walk your dog there’s no poop to pick up.  No cat litter.  Cats don’t kill birds.  Birds don’t hunt worms.  No slaughterhouses or cruel livestock industry.  The entire food chain collapses.

Although old age and accidents keep the population under control, obesity and digestive-based diseases evaporate into thin air.  

In her dream world “the lion lays down with the lamb and a little child leads them”.  But instead of the boy eating a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch, together they breathe the same air of peace.

She awoke with a smile on her face.  But questions slowly brought her back to reality. Would huge noses and giant chests become fashionable?  How about teeth?  Do they serve any purpose other than chewing?  Flossing is a bore but being toothless isn’t a very attractive alternative. The questions continued.  Maybe the answers will appear in her dreams.  Perhaps tonight.

An Unexpected Gift

We live in a seasonal tide pool.  Each summer the outgoing flow sweeps expats northward.   And we return to La Paz in a wave when temperatures fall in October.  We’re critters who arrive with bags of luxuries:  450 count Egyptian cotton sheets, packets of Indian spices, lap top computers, enough books to get us through the winter and gifts.  Gifts for the women who clean our houses and for our friends who remain here through the sweltering summer clinging to their air conditioners and their sanity like barnacles on the bottom of abandoned boats.

 I’m not often surprised but last night I received an unexpected present.  Our friends, Mike and Jeanette, have a home in Utah and another in La Paz.  They invited us to visit them this summer. Our Miata, Zoom, was bored driving the same San Francisco East Bay roads so we decided a road trip would be a fantastic idea. 

We packed Zoom’s mini-trunk with clothes and walking shoes since Jeanette and Mike are avid hikers. 

We drove through the golden hills of California, gagged driving past the Harris Ranch stench on I-5, won $8 in Nevada, and took 100 photos in Zion National Park. 

Jeanette and Mike welcomed us into their canyon home and their lives.  And for three days we hiked.  The hills of San Francisco didn’t prepare us of the ups and downs of Utah’s 11,000-foot mountains.  Nor were we ready for the winds at that elevation.  As we climbed up, the wind pushed us backward.  Then the wind would suddenly stop and we’d lurch forward.  It was during an extreme wind gust that my Zoom hat flew off my head and landed on a precipitous slope.  The four of us took turns peeking over the edge.  Yes, we could see my hat but we all shook our heads at the possibility of retrieving it.  I said in my most adult voice, “It’s no big deal; I can buy another hat.”  And I was sure that I had convinced them. 

The next day, Jeanette gave me the pick of their baseball-hat collection but none sat quite right on my head.  I chose the one with the largest visor-big enough to hide my loss. 

When we returned to the Bay Area, three Mazda dealerships told me that they’d be stocking Zoom caps for Christmas.  Although I was surprised I couldn’t buy a hat immediately, I had to admit that I didn’t really want a new hat.  The spoiled brat that I try to keep locked in the dungeon of my personality pouted, “I want my OLD Zoom hat back.” 

Alex and I drifted back to La Paz in October along with the incoming tide of Estranjeros.  Mike and Jeanette arrived in the second wave. 

Last night we met for dinner.  I reached up to give Mike a hug and sitting on his head was…my Zoom hat! 

Jeanette and Mike had returned to the peak the week after we left.  And there was my hat teasing them from its resting place on the steep slope.  Mike tried to snag it with a fishing line but couldn’t quite hook it. He decided to try to climb down.  He picked his way down the precipice and snatched the hat, but after sliding and twisting his knee, Jeanette had to throw him a rope so he could ascend safely.  Hand over hand he climbed out with my hat securely in his belt.  Like a real-life hero he saved it from the blistering heat and raging wind. 

Last night, as Mike removed my Zoom hat from his head and I placed it firmly on mine, I realized that this tall quiet man is much more than the person I thought I knew.  He’s determined,  patient, and a risk taker.  An adventurer with a sense of humor.  And my friend. 

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.