How Hot Is it???

I remember it clearly.  October 6, 2011.  3:15 a.m.   It happened while we were asleep.  As usual, my full bladder woke me.  I slipped into my Birkenstocks and shuffled to the bedroom door, turned the handle and pulled the door open.  My entire body knew something was amiss. 

Alex and I returned to La Paz Sept. 21^st.   It wasn’t merely hot; it was sizzling and even though we were exhausted the night we returned, the noise of the a/c kept me awake.  It took three nights for my brain to accept, ignore, and finally welcome the whirling sound.  And every morning since, at 3 a.m., when I opened our bedroom door, I was assaulted by a blast of hot air that ricocheted off the walls, ceilings and floors of our hallway and bathroom.

But on Oct. 6^th the air felt – comfortable! 

I returned to the bedroom, turned off the air conditioner, and relished the quiet.  I opened the window.  A cool breeze fluttered the curtain.  I lay down and closed my eyes and smiled. Then - a dog barked.  A car without a muffler sped past.  The guards across the street laughed.  I turned onto my side which blocked out half the noise.  But not enough to let me sleep.  After ten minutes, I got up, shut window, and then turned on the air conditioner.  In less than five minutes I was asleep.

In two weeks I’d gone from not being able to sleep with the noise of the a/c to not being able to sleep without it. 

On the cool morning of October 6th I couldn’t find Alex.  The office was empty and the computer screen was dark.  I became worried.  In the fourteen days we’d been back, Alex began every day by turning on the a/c and the computer in the office.  We drank coffee, read, played Mexican Train and occasionally ate dinner there.  Although we have bars on the windows, it was the heat that imprisoned us.

I went downstairs and found Alex on the patio – barefoot and grinning.  He said, “Judy, even the tiles feel cool.”  He wiggled his toes happily.  He said, “I feel as if I’ve been paroled.”  He then added, “This has been the hottest two weeks – ever!”  

During that unbearable fortnight we needed to complain.  But to whom?  The women who clean our house?  Most likely, their only cooling systems are fans.  I didn’t dare whine to my friends who stayed in La Paz the entire summer because the one time I did, they said, “This is nothing; it was much hotter in August.”

  When we were in El Norte I “Skyped” a friend and, on my computer screen, I saw her sweet face dripping sweat.  There was panic in her voice when she said, “Judy, the heat just doesn’t stop.”

Oralia, another friend who moved here from Hermosia said that In August she was ready to give up and leave La Paz and go back to Hermosia because the heat was “insoportable” here.

I think these die-hards should be rewarded with tee-shirts that read, “I Survived the Sumer of 2011 in La Paz.”

Two week in the heat of La Paz may not merit a tee-shirt but when it was hot I wanted to grumble.  But, if I shouldn’t complain to Mexicans who spend their summers here and I don’t dare moan to the extranjeros who stay behind, who can I complain to?  There’s third group, like Alex and I, who are able to escape a portion of time when La Paz turns into a 100- degree prison.

But some ex-pats swear they’ll never belong to this third group.  I remember asking a couple who recently bought a house here where they planned to spend the summers.  The man said, “We won’t leave La Paz!  We’re not on vacation; we live here now.”  Alex and I traded tiny smirks.  We’ve heard they spent July and August on the mainland and they’ve arranged to return there next summer.  Welcome to group #3. We are kindred spirits.  Grateful to be able to escape even though some feel guilty that we’ve “jumped ship”.

 So, if we must whine, it would be best to complain within group #3 because no one who has endured the entire summer heat wants to listen to us moan and groan.  Or we can wait until the next wave of ex-pats return to La Paz and when they complain about the 90 degree heat, we can say, “This is nothing!  When we returned to La Paz in mid- September it was 96 degrees every day … for two entire weeks!  And the water temperature must have been 87.  It was soooo hot we had to go swimming every evening.”

    

Can You Guess Where We Are?

Would you like to play a game?  A guessing game?

Take a peek at these photos and guess where I shot them.  The goal – to accurately name the location.  The prize – to be determined later.

A cowboy from a rancho on the Baja?

Could they be Queretaro? La Paz? Mexico City? Todos Santos, or somewhere in Chiapas or the Yucatan?

Need a hint?  The location is hidden. Look very carefully.

Give up?  What’s the Spanish word for HIDDEN?  That’s right.  Escondido.  As in - Escondido, California which is 30 miles north of San Diego.

Two weeks after leaving La Paz homesickness struck like a severe case of the turistas but it affected my heart not my intestines.  Oh, there were plenty of Mexican restaurants around but they were so Gringo-ized (every dish drowned in melted cheese) that I felt even more depressed.  Then one day on our way to Safeway I spotted a small sign in front of a humble-looking market.  Tacos $1. 










Zoom, our little Miata, made an illegal U-turn and as we pulled into the parking lot, I smelled Mexico.  

 The moment we entered I saw Mexico.  And when I squeezed limon onto my carnita I had to squeeze back my saliva. I took a big bite and I tasted Mexico.  I was home.

Alex eats four tacos!

Jose, the chef, who had piled a mountain of meat onto the hand-made corn tortilla, gave me directions to the tortillaria where they are hecho a mano and it was while we drove there that I noticed that Mexico was all around me. I hadn't noticed because it was merely Escondido.

Would they accept pesos?

 

Alex and I have been in The States for four months this summer and we've housesat in six towns.  One of the first things we do after we arrive in a new city is search for hidden Mexico.  So far we've scored 100%.  It's easy when you know what you're looking for.

It Should Have Been Simply

I went shopping for white slacks.  Size 10.    Light weight.  Thin enough that I could easily tuck them into a corner of my already bulging suitcase. Instead, I bought a living room chair.

This wasn’t just any chair; it was the chair that I’d dreamed about since I’d seen a photo of it in a (insert a decorating magazine name) two summers ago. It wasn’t as if I imagined I’d find this chair. It was merely an abstract desire.  But the situation became concrete when I first noticed it, pointed and said to Alex, “Look Alex, there’s my chair.”  Then I turned over the price tag. I grinned.

We were in a consignment (aka thrift) store.  Near San Diego.  Where slacks are clean, hung neatly and arranged by color. Where sweaters smell like Woolite.  And where chairs seem new except for the tiny faded spot near the rear left leg. Where price tags are too low to ignore.

“How will we get it to La Paz?”  asked Alex.  He looked through the store window at Zoom, my tiny Miata, and asked, “How will we get it to Vickie’s?”

“It will be easy”, I replied.

We paid the cashier and asked if they’d hold the chair for us.  We sent an e-mail to Vickie, the person we’re housesitting for, and asked if we could borrow her SUV, and  began to search for methods to transport the chair south 1,100 miles. The first estimate was $499.  Alex grabbed the calculator.  If he flew to La Paz, drove our Blazer north to San Diego, and we both drove back to La Paz instead of flying the cost for gas and hotel would be slightly less than $500.  

Alex said, “Tell me again why this chair is so special.” 

I said, “I know you already have a chair in La Paz.  But it’s dark green leather so it looks like it belongs in a house where you need a fireplace and mittens.  Plus, it’s big and clunky. And the footstool is huge. And it’s a recliner! Our living room is small so it’s about scale and creating the illusion of space.  While both may be the same size, notice that the new chair is much more open and light looking.  Yes, I know that we paid $1450 not including the matching footstool for the leather one.  But this chair is labeled Pottery Barn on the bottom so I bet it was expensive, too. And you can’t find chairs like this in La Paz. Also, I bet that we can sell the leather chair for $100 in La Paz.”

After calling several ground transport companies, we thought of Volaris Airlines.  While Juan was working up an estimate I twirled my hair, a nervous habit I’ve recently developed. $2000 pesos (about $170 U.S.).  But we’d have to bring the chair to TJ airport.

Once again we e-mailed Vickie and asked to borrow her SUV.   We called Ginger and Ray, our friends in La Paz.  Yes, they could drive to the airport, pick up the chair, and take it to our house.  We bought tape, bubble wrap and cardboard.  We protected the chair as if it were a newborn.

Yesterday morning we filled Vickie’s car with gas and headed to the border.  After circling the airport three times, we found Customs and paid $150 pesos duty.  Juan at Voloris measured and weighed the chair.  $800 pesos.  Not, the $2000 he’d estimated.  Of course, he neglected to include the legs when he took his measurements. One of the many things I love about Mexico is that if you’re pleasant and respectful, most often you’ll get a break.  And, since I’d called Juan at least three times, what he might have considered just another ordinary item became known as “The Chair”.  He gently took The Chair, placed five fragile stickers on it and we shook hands.

We had been so concerned about getting to the airport that we hadn’t considered the route back to the border and we took a wrong turn.  We stopped, asked for directions and finally found the line.  Unfortunately, it was reserved for frequent border crossers. The U.S. border patrol had no sense of humor and took our passports, wrapped them in pink paper and placed them under our windshield wipers and pointed us to a secondary inspection area.  We waited.  Turned off the engine and turned on NPR and heard about the budget deficit. For a moment I wondered if buying the chair was adding to our family’s deficit.

 Finally, the car in front of us moved forward.  Alex turned the key.  Silence.  The inspector waved us forward.  Alex flushed and swore.  The inspector helped us push the car forward.  While Alex used the bathroom I went from car to car asking for jumper cables. I noticed that all the other cars contained Hispanics.  I was embarrassed at how they were treated Finally, I turned to the most unlikely prospect.  An older woman alone.  “Si, tengo cables”, she said to me.  The inspector allowed her to pull up to Vickie’s car.  And by the time Alex returned, she had the cables connected and with the turn of two keys, our engine was running.  I folded a large bill in my palm and tried to hand it to her but she acted shocked and said that next time it might be her that needs help.  Here was an older woman who’d been pulled over, had waited for more than an hour, and remained patient, generous, and, more than anything still, willing to help two Americans.

The inspector never opened our doors or trunk.  He merely told Alex that they could have fined us $5000 because we went into the wrong line.  That would have pushed up the cost of the chair up to a level that even I couldn’t justify.

But we arrived home safely and at this moment, I’m twilling my hair and waiting for a call from Ginger and Ray.  They should be on their way to the airport.

 

Shhh, can you keep a secret?

Promise that what I'm about to confess will stay between the two of us.  And that you won't think less of me.  

You know that I'm basically an honest person.  

I always stop at Alto signs — unless there's no policeman around.  And if you had a $1000 bill on your kitchen counter, I'd never consider touching it.  However, since I'm being totally truthful, if it was a plate of brownies instead of money, I might not be able to control myself.  But I wouldn't steal the plate.  I'm sure about that.  

And your husband is safe with me.  He could walk into the kitchen butt naked and I'd be too busy eating the brownies to notice him.  Okay, you get the idea.  I’m an honorable older woman.  Or, I WAS trustworthy until I invited five women friends to my house for brunch. 

I decided to prepare low-fat quiche, high-fiber muffins and a juicy fruit salad.  Delicious, quick, and easy.  Or so I thought. 

A while ago my friend, Ana, the gadget queen, gave me this—thing.  A hollow tube eight inches long with a handle on the end.  “It resembles something I've seen at my gynecologist’s office,” I said.  She laughed and said, "It's to peel and core a pineapple, silly."  

The next day, Alex bought a pineapple and we tried out our new kitchen toy. A few twists of our new gadget resulted in a perfect pineapple swirl.  

I imagined a heaping platter of ripe papaya, mango, pear, apple and kiwi with a long spiral of pineapple crowning the plate. What I couldn’t picture was going to the store to buy the fruit. 

I don’t like to shop. I don't enjoy huge stores where you run the risk of being mowed down by the floor-cleaning machine, where bras hang next to the fish counter and I don't appreciate having my car doors dented while I’m in the store. 

I like to shop where I can't afford to buy anything.  I love to wander through specialty shops where they charge $39.99 a pound for cheese.  I adore the samples at Harry and David’s but always leave empty handed.  I take photos of old world type delis where cured meat hangs from the ceiling...where you order by the slice, not by the pound.  You get the idea.  I'm high on standards but low on resources. 

So Alex does most of our grocery shopping.  Except – the week of the brunch he had a nasty cold.  The fridge was almost bare. 

I considered cancelling the brunch but had a little talk with myself and said, “Self, buck up!”  I grabbed keys, money and a shopping list.   I dashed through the store and was back in my car before my car doors got dinged.

Back home Alex said, "The pineapple is green."  I replied, “All of them were green but I have four days before the brunch; it will ripen”.  I gently wrapped it in newspaper (NOT the Baja Citizen) and checked it three times a day.  Green.  Green.  Green.  The day before the brunch I consulted the internet.  It said pineapples don't ripen after they're picked.  Damn. And that's when my strict code of ethics bent like a cabaret contortionist. 

I didn’t return to the store where I bought the green pineapple since all their pineapples were green; I went to DIFFERENT store.  At the Servicios de Clientes desk I told several tiny fibs, "My husband bought this green pineapple yesterday …he doesn't know how to choose a ripe pineapple so I want to exchange it for a yellow one.  "No, lo siento, I don't have the ticket." 

In order to exchange it, I dragged myself up three levels on the inflexible chain of command.  Finally, the senior manager took my pineapple and handed me a refund.  

I hurried toward the fruit department and saw them – a mountain of pineapples. I tossed pineapples around as quickly as my honor.  Each was greener than the one I'd handed over to the manager. 

 I ran back to the Client Service Desk but neither the original clerk nor the manager was there.  I told this clerk, “I left a pineapple here five minutes ago and I need to buy it back.”  She looked under the counter and in the lost and found.  No pineapple. Karma chuckled as I walked to my car empty-handed. 

My five friends enjoyed the pineapple-less fruit salad.  But I had a hard time swallowing – guilt sometimes affects me that way.  Of course, they have no idea. So let's keep this quiet.  I've learned my lesson.  Honestly.  

A Twinge of Fear

It began with a tiny twinge in my right knee.  But I wasn’t going to let a little pain stop me.  I ignored it.  Every day I walk for an hour so I grabbed my headphones and headed to the Malecon but after walking for only ten minutes, my knee began to throb in tune with Tina Turner’s Simply the Best.  I turned up the volume and my pace.  But the pain followed suit and it won.

I lowered myself onto a bench, pulled off my earphones and watched the parade of people.   From bounding gazelles to lumbering hippos; you see it on the Malecon. Then, I noticed a young man in the sports-wheelchair wearing racing gloves and a big smile, a tiny old woman in a flowered polyester dress supported by two tall, young men who chatted over her head, and a man whose paralyzed left side refused to cooperate with his agile right half.  For the first time, I noticed the people who had difficulty walking.

At home I swallowed an 800 mg Motrin, rested, and the next day I laced my tennis shoes and left the house without Tina’s insistent beat. Although I walked more slowly, I couldn’t ignore the pain.  I sat and watched the waves.  They say that fear comes in waves and I was scared. Would I end up like the man in the wheelchair, the old shuffling woman, or the stroke victim who had to drag half his body around?  

I made an appointment with a physical therapist.

In the waiting room Fear whispered, “Knee replacement surgery.”  Then he said, “Complete bed rest.”  Finally, and worst of all, “Sorry, there’s nothing we can do to cure old age.”  On television a hysterical woman, who could have been my alter-ego, wept tele-novela tears. 

The clinic’s entrance door swung open.  Two attractive women practically carried their mother into the room.  Alex quickly offered his seat and the sisters slowly lowered their twig-legged mother.  A tiny groan escaped her lips.  I looked away. 

Within five minutes the youngest told me that she was newly married and had lived in Houston for two years.  But when she heard of her mother’s physical difficulties, she asked her employer for a leave of absence, and she returned to La Paz.  “Naturally, my husband understands that I must take care of my mother”, she said.  She had no idea when she’d be returning to her husband.

Her older sister lifts weights so she’ll be able to attend to her mother’s needs.  These women chatted easily and laughed frequently.  They included Mama in the conversation. And they constantly caressed her.

As we talked, the cleaning woman came in with her mop.  She immediately went to the older woman, leaned down, patted the old woman’s flabby arm and asked, “como esta ud. hoy?”  The old woman smiled and said, “Mejor, gracias mija “. 

Later the physical therapist entered, put her arm around the old woman and whispered into her mushroom-colored ear.  The therapist nodded and the daughters helped their mother into the therapy room.

I sat surrounded by crutches, wheelchairs and walkers.  What was I doing there?  As if ashamed, my knee hadn’t twitched the entire time.  I got up and said, “Alex, let’s go.”  But, at that moment the nurse called my name. 

The doctor prodded, bent and twisted my leg until I winced. 

He said, “No problem.  After five rehab sessions you should be pain-free and able to return to your normal walking schedule.” 

No surgery, no crutches, and no mention of old bones. I’d been given a reprieve.  And a gift – the opportunity to observe people who cared, listened, and weren’t afraid to touch old wrinkled bodies.

Maybe someday when I’m old, I’ll be lucky.  Perhaps there will be people who will treat me with kindness regardless of my flaccid skin or brittle bones. But, until then, I’m going to try to be brave.  Courageous enough to visit and assist aged acquaintances. 

California, Here We come

It’s a daily ritual.  While I wait for coffee to brew, I check my calendar and slash through the box that was yesterday.  Now, there are only a few dates remaining until we reach the square where I’ve written, “Leave for El Norte”.

I wrote those words months ago without any particular emotion.  But this morning, when I realized how fast the date was approaching, dread came and sat squarely on my shoulders.  It will be hard to leave La Paz.

There are a dozen things we need to do:  Pre-pay utility bills.  Arrange to have our plants watered and the sidewalk swept.  Take down paintings and mirrors to protect them from condensation caused by heavy rain.  Empty the fountain.  Ask friends to drive us to the airport.  So many details.  But none are the cause of my distress.

I’m anxious because there are so many things I’ll miss and want to do before we leave La Paz.   

·        I’ll miss fish tacos and arrachera at Rancho Viejo.

·        And being part of the Sunday evening Malecon Mixmaster composed of bikers, skateboarders, rollerbladers, strollers and out-of-control battery powered cars driven by two-year-olds.  

·        I want to watch the sun light up the bay early on a Sunday morning when the Malecon is free of traffic.

·        I want to play Rummiqub with Ginger and Mercedes.  And just once, I’d like to win.

·        I’d like to finish and return the novel Caramelo. 

·        I’ll miss suggestions from the Sea of Cortez Writers’ group.  And their patience.

·        I’d love to write a perfect first draft. 

·        Lose four pounds so I can fit into my swimsuit. 

·        Master the subjunctive tense in Spanish.

·        Learn to paint like Ulla.

Okay, maybe the last four are a bit unrealistic but emotions and realism rarely co-exist.

The reality is that Alex and I have been lucky.  We take care of large beautiful homes in the States but, nevertheless; I’ll miss our small house with its plant-filled patios.  I’ll miss dark-eyed Mexican children but will settle for blond, blue- eyed substitutes. I’ll miss the roosters but not the barking dogs.  The music but not the all-night parties.  The 85-degree water temperature but not the humid 105-degree afternoons.  I’ll crave fish tacos but will savor Thai and Indian food.

There are things I am looking forward to.  Libraries.  Foreign films with English subtitles.  Trader Joes.  And, on Sunday mornings, Alex will buy three fat newspapers – in English, and then he’ll drive to a donut shop and bring home an old-fashioned donut for me and a huge apple fritter for himself.  We’ll sit on the balcony, read to each other, drink coffee, and eat donuts.  I know that even if I manage to drop four pounds before we leave La Paz, I’ll gain them back in El Norte.

But at least I won’t be friendless because some of our La Paz pals have homes in California and Oregon.  We’ll visit.  And create memories.  And I’ll look for odd or amusing experiences to write about for the Baja Citizen; it will help connect me to La Paz.

And, each morning while we’re in the States, as I wait for coffee to brew, I’ll mark a slash through the day that was yesterday.  And one day, there will be just a few dates unmarked until we reach the square where I’ve written, “Return to La Paz”.  And I’ll recognize the tickle in my tummy means that soon I’ll be coming home.    

  

La Paz Street Scene

Mexico takes an easy-going approach to man-made noise.  So life in La Paz sounds much different than in El Norte.

I was jolted awake by a blaring loud speaker on my first morning in La Paz.  It was Trinidad selling newspapers.  Fourteen years later, he still drives by the house at 7:45 every morning.   If his car is old and dented, the speaker attached to his roof is positively ancient.  It crackles and distorts his words.  Although I’ve listened to his carefully, I understand very little but I know enough to realize that he’s trying to tempt potential customers with juicy headlines.  But I never buy his paper.

Shortly after Trinidad passes, the bottled water and propane trucks begin to arrive.    Each company has its own jingle and they play them – loudly.  The trucks seem to pass our house every hour. When we need water we listed for Sergio’s song, rush to our gate with 12 pesos ($1.00 U.S. plus tip). He smiles, carries the heavy bottle of water through the house and places it on the back patio.  We chat for a few minutes.  Meanwhile, his song blares on.

The ice cream truck parks in front of our house and waits. And waits.   Although I never buy an ice cream, his song is magical; it transports me back to my childhood.  My father used to take my hand and lead me toward the music.  I had three choices: Popsicle, Fudgesicle, or a Drumstick.  In those days, happiness could be bought for a nickel. 

Not all entrepreneurs have trucks or loud speakers in La Paz.  Some have bicycles. Others walk.  The donut man balances a huge tray on his head and calls out, “donas, donas” as he passes by.  I love to see this old man all around El Centro selling his donuts. I smile but I don’t buy.

When I hear the eerie tones of a flute I know the knife sharpener is nearing.   He carries his grinder and wooden stool with him.  But Alex sharpens our knives so, although I’m charmed by the lilt of his flute, I don’t give him my business.

During the winter I smell the wood smoke from the camote man’s cart from several blocks away.  Our cockatoo, Howlie, used to start screaming long before we could hear the steam-whistle approach.  Howlie and I would wait.  She’d be rigid with excitement.  She’d swallow large chunks of the smoky sweet potato topped with syrup.  And, if we were lucky, she’d leave a few bites for Alex and me. But Howlie is gone so we simply reminisce when we hear the whistle.

Although her unique sounds enchant me, La Paz also attracts me with her colors and odors.

I only have to walk a short block to the Malecon where the balloon vendor grips big bunches of colorful balloons. A lucky toddler pulls a balloon-doggie down the Malecon.  But children grow and become teenagers.  They fall in love.  Their devotion is tested.  Does the novio love his novia enough to buy her a red rose wrapped in cellophane?  From the look of delight on the girl’s face, I’d say her boyfriend passed the test.

Alex doesn’t buy me roses.  Now it’s ears of corn roasted over wood fires that get my juices flowing.  While I try to ignore this wonderful odor, Alex accepts a sample of Kettle corn. Occasionally, he buys a bag. The next morning I eat stale popcorn for breakfast.

Until recently, I’ve been delighted by Mexican vendors: the newspaper hawker, the water, propane and ice cream truck jingles, the people who sell donuts, roasted corn, sweet potatoes, popcorn, and roses.

 Then I began to notice their tired faces.  How could I be so naïve?  These men and women earn their living by selling these products. Many push heavy carts all day.  They do not exist for my entertainment. I was a voyeur peeking into a Mexican-style Rockwell painting and confusing it with reality.  These hard working people use colors, sounds and odors to attract buyers. What is their profit margin?  How much water does Sergio have to lug to buy a kilo of meat?  My smiles and nods do not put food in the mouths of their children. 

My fairy-tale world has cracked slightly but I have choices.  I can buy that balloon. And give it to a child.  Or the red rose and give it to an old woman.  I can even buy a newspaper.  It can serve as my Spanish lesson for a week.  I can’t afford the calories in donuts, ice cream, roasted corn, or sugary sweet potatoes; however, I can buy them occasionally and offer them to my neighbors.  And, in addition, I can choose to deepen my respect for these vendors who offer their goods at a price that I can’t afford to ignore.