Don't Get on the Dreaded Scale ~

The average person gains eight pounds during the Christmas holiday.  Eight pounds!  Eight pounds is nearly one dress size. Eight pounds feel like your jeans were washed in boiling water and then dried in hell.  Eight pounds is groaning climbing up the stairs and grunting when you bend over to cut your toe nails. Eight pounds won’t be ignored.

For us who add Mexican celebrations to our already food-laden holidays, those eight pounds might turn into ten because in La Paz holidays are stretched far beyond our willpower.  Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Evening, Dia del Santos Reyes (Jan 6^th…think hot chocolate and sweet bread with plastic babies hidden inside), and finally on Feb 2^nd,  Dia de la Candelaria (a tamale party hosted by those who cut into the baby on Jan. 6th). And, of course, we can’t forget the sweetest day of all – St. Valentine’s Day.

 But don’t despair, help is available.

Starting in October women’s magazines offer advice, first on how to avoid the weight gain, and then after the holidays, when readers are lugging around those extra pounds, they publish diets that they guarantee  will melt away the newly acquired weight.  And we buy the magazines.  We’re hopeful, desperate, and finally disappointed. Because there are two major problems with their approach:  first, the diet articles are sandwiched between photos and recipes of irresistibly gooey, sugary desserts, and second the suggestions only work if you’re anorexic.

Here are a few tips I actually found on the internet – honest-to-god:   

1.      To shave calories, go easy when adding nuts, cheese, cream sauces, gravy, butter, and whipped cream -- additions that don't add much to the meal. Don’t add much to a meal??? Who are they trying to kid? Turkey breast can’t be swallowed without gravy.

2.      Hold a mineral water in your dominant hand so it won't be so easy to grab food. No problem; I’m ambidextrous.

3.      Be a food snob. If you don't love it, don't eat it.  Great, I won’t touch the Brussels sprouts.

4.      Eating sensibly throughout the day will take the edge off the appetite and empower a bit of restraint.  Sensible eating just primes my appetite for decadent goodies.

5.      When you arrive at the party wait at least 30 minutes before eating. What??? There won’t be any food left.

6.      After dinner, try a spirited game of charades, or rent an instructional dance video followed by a dance-off. The only exercise our men want is going to the buffet table for seconds. 

7.      Skip the appetizers. Or choose veggies and fruit. Let’s see:  Blue cheese wrapped in filo pastry or celery sticks?  No contest.

8.      Put only two items on your plate at the buffet table. Return as many times as you like, but only take two items each time.  Pecan and Pumpkin pie – every time!

Can you see how nutty these suggestions are? But don’t despair. After losing and gaining the same eight pounds hundreds of time, I’ve come up with my own practical advice:

1.      Don’t stay home during the holidays.   Travel.  To a deserted island where nuts, cheese, cream sauces, gravy, butter and whipped cream aren’t available.

2.       Forget cookie exchanges.  Instead have a fruit exchange. Every person brings a piece of fruit for each guest, and at the end of the exchange, everyone will go home with enough fruit to give them the runs for a week.

3.      Go on an Overeater’s Anonymous cruise for 14 days. Where steamed veggies are the main entree and the plates are the size of a baby’s palm. A cruise that confiscates smuggled treats upon boarding and doesn’t allow land excursions.

4.      Find a doctor who will prescribe some old-fashioned diet pills – just enough to get you through the holidays.  You’ll be the hit of every party; not only will you rattle-on like a Carnaval blanket hawker but, long after the other guests have gone home,  you’ll scrub the hostess’s kitchen cabinets, linen closets and bathrooms.   

5.      Find a doctor who will sell you lithium – why not sleep through the entire holiday season?

6.      Check yourself into a hospital.  The red Jell-O and dry chicken breast will ensure that instead of gaining weight, you’ll be so weak when you leave; they’ll push you out in a wheelchair.

7.      Start a really big argument with your husband or your best friend.  Bring up the ugly past.  Guaranteed to ruin even the best appetite.

8.      Avoid friends who say, “Oh, I’m always forgetting to eat; look how lose my jeans fit.”  Or, “I’ve stuffed myself all season and haven’t gained a pound.” You know who they are.  Ignore them completely.

Get real, friends. You’ve got two choices:  You can remain slim but feel deprived or you can simply embrace the eight pounds you’re going to gain.  Enjoy each bite of special holiday food.  And be really nice to friends that are one size larger than you.  Ask them to borrow some of their clothes until you shed those extra pounds…sometime in April.  Or May.  Don’t feel timid; after all, they’ll need to borrow clothes from friends that are even larger than they are.

 Happy Holidays!

Merry Christmas, Feliz Navidad

Feliz Navidad, Happy Hanukah, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  I recently conducted a scientific survey to determine how my friends had felt about the recent holidays.  After careful analysis the data clearly showed that 51%  had looked forward to holiday season, 52% wished they could sleep through it, and 27% were undecided.  (Please note there was a 30% margin of error). Like the agnostic I am, I fell into the third, and least popular, group. And, of course, like most children born into dysfunctional families, I blame my parents for that and everything else.

How can I describe my family? Remember the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”?  That was us – with a twist.  Like the movie, my parents were born, raised and got married in Greece.  They immigrated to the U.S. and within one year they managed to bring my grandmother from the Old Country (she lived with us until she died).  We owned a family-run restaurant, and I even fell for a non-Greek but, unlike the movie, my family did something very unorthodox shortly before I was born – they left the Greek Church and joined a rigid, rule-loving, religion that shunned all holidays. 

I was a Greek raised on lamb, garlic and pride.  It’s easy to be smug when you believe that your religion is the only true one. Then, as happened to Eve in Eden, one day temptation slithered into my life. But while Eve succumbed to an apple tree, I was lured by an evergreen.

I wasn’t in a garden when temptation hissed at me.  I was merely walking home from school, when a classmate invited me to her home to see her Christmas tree.  I slunk past my house and, in one city block, broke 100% of three family rules: always come directly home from school, avoid (whenever possible) contact with people who don’t belong to our church and do not, under any circumstances, participate in pagan holidays.

 When I entered Janet’s house, guilt tiptoed in behind me. The pungent odor of cedar reminded me of my mother’s closet. I hesitated – but only for a moment. The tree nearly touched the ceiling and the tinseled limbs obscured the living room window.  Janet’s mother flicked the switch and a happy explosion of colored lights converted that humble room into a fairyland.  We sat on the floor, drank hot chocolate, and listened to Johnny Mathis croon carols. My hand trembled when I reached for a reindeer ornament; I was 92% certain that my “jealous God” would send a lightning bolt to strike me dead Instead, I was destined to lug around a heavy secret: Pagan or not – I was 100% sure I wanted to celebrate Christmas.

Twenty one years later, when I was 33 years old, I got my chance. Alex accepted a promotion which included a transfer to Minneapolis.  I kissed my parents good-by and sped away from the straight-laced religious life I’d known.

Late on Christmas Eve, 1997, Alex and I drove past the local hardware store.  A huge handwritten sign read “Free Christmas Trees”. Alex looked at me and raised his eyebrows.  I refused to leave the car but he quickly grabbed a scraggly specimen and wrestled it onto our roof rack.  I smelled the pine all the way home and I could see the tip of the tree jiggle through the cold Minnesota night. My nerves felt as jittery as the tree; I searched the sky for lightning but the heavens were indifferent.

We pulled into our driveway and our neighbor, Tony, helped Alex carry the tree into our house. We didn’t own Christmas lights or tinsel.  Tony said, “Francis and I have boxes of extra decorations; I’ll be right back.”  They returned with boxes piled high.  Although I remained a safe distance from the forbidden tree, I was excited.  This was my very first Christmas!

 Then Francis said, “Tony, don’t just fling the tinsel onto the tree in handfuls.  You’re supposed to hang it one string at a time.  No, no, Alex, the lights are too far apart.”  No, don’t put two green stockings so close together.”  Something was wrong.  This wasn’t anything like Perry Como’s Christmas family. At midnight, finally alone with Alex, we switched on the lights and, although I “oohed and aahed”, my excitement was as artificial as Rudolph’s red nose.  

I decided I needed to try harder to catch the holiday spirit. We were given another opportunity to celebrate on New Year’s Day. We joined my co-workers for a Rose Bowl party. The women were in the kitchen doing all the work; the men drank too much, ate with their eyes glued to the TV and screamed at the referees. The women watched the children – and the clock.  On our way home Alex said, “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”

But I’m tenacious.   For the last three decades I’ve pretended my way through the holidays always hoping to experience the same Spirit of the Season that I felt at Janet’s home when I was a child. And this year I’d been very, very good, so I though that maybe, if there really is a Santa, he’d bring me the one gift I’ve been waiting for – a 100% enthusiastic holiday season.  But then there's always next year.      

Let's Buy a House Today

March, 1992.  Vancouver, Washington.  It was bitter cold.  Bitter as a betrayed lover.  We’d already endured five months of rain and it wouldn’t stop for three more months.  So Alex did what any sane man would do.  He went fishing.

Alex came home from work wearing a drenched raincoat and a big smile.  He and his co-worker were going fishing.  In Cabo.  For a week.  I asked, “What’s Cabo”?  He showed me a fishing magazine.  I tried to ignore the man-sized fish hanging from a scaffold.  Instead, I focused on the blue ocean and the sunny sky.  I forced my lip to quiver.   I quickly developed abandonment issues.  It didn’t matter that I abhor fishing (I feel guilty about killing cockroaches).  My “abandoner” was going to sunny Mexico and leaving me in soggy Washington.  No way!

 I looked for a hook:  “You deserve a vacation, Alex.” I threw out the bait: “Alex, why don’t you and John go to Mexico, fish for a week, then John can return and I’ll join you in Cabo?”  I trolled guilt in front of him: “It will be like the honeymoon we never had.”

Two weeks later we landed in San Jose del Cabo. By Portland standards, the Cabo terminal was a mini-airport but there was nothing insignificant about the periwinkle Baja sky or the ochre dessert.  After two nights in Cabo, we rented a car and drove to La Paz looking for a more laid-back town and calmer beaches.  

Balandra Beach

We checked into a bay-front room at the Los Arcos Hotel, strolled on the Malecon, gawked at the sunset, and fell asleep to a symphony of Mexican music emanating from cars cruising by our window.   The next morning we grabbed our towels and headed toward Balandra beach.  The parking lot was empty and the beach deserted. We dropped our clothes on the sand and waded far out into the clean shallow bay.  Sargent majors nibbled our toes. We were living a scene from a movie.  Then, Alex turned and hurried toward shore.

“Where are you going?”  I yelled.   He yelled back, “I hid my wallet under a rock.  And there was a person jogging on the beach.”  Alex lifted the rock and – his wallet was still there.   I told him a dozen times he’d worried for nothing.

On our drive back toward La Paz we noticed a palapa restaurant. Our stomachs growled in time to the Mexican music that lured us in:  sand floor, wooden tables and chairs painted Aegean blue.  And the aroma of garlic and butter.  We ordered, and then went swimming.  The waiter waved us back to shore.   Our grilled red snappers hung over his large tray.  When only the skeletons remained we asked for the bill.  I was thinking, “This is paradise.”  Then I heard a crash.  The table leapt.  I looked at Alex and knew our honeymoon was over. His wallet was empty. More than $800.  Gone.   We considered returning home early.  To cold rainy Washington.  Instead, we bought a house.

But first we spent an entire day at the police station filling out reports in the hope that they’d find the thief.  Next, American Express loaned us $200. If we were going to stretch $200 until our departure date, we needed to be creative and find very inexpensive entertainment.

“Alex, let’s call a real estate agent who’ll show us the city.  I’d love to peek into some authentic Mexican houses.  It’ll be fun.  Maybe she’ll buy us lunch (she didn’t).” We frequently reminded each other that this was a lark.  We walked through houses larger than the Cabo airport.  And derelict houses.  And weed-filled lots barricaded by tall walls. But on Saturday, the day before our flight home, we parked in front of a small house one block from the Malecon.  It was well-maintained and well-priced but it was the Mexican fountain that hooked Alex.

That night we argued until the exhausted moon sank into the bay.

I pleaded my case: “Alex, I’m only 48; I can’t retire for 17 years.  We can’t afford a second home.  This was supposed to be a lark.”  I repeatedly insisted that his logic was flawed.

Alex’s logic: Judy, La Paz is warm and sunny.  It will be an adventure.  And I can fish all year.

The next morning, rummy from lack of sleep, we wrote a check as a down payment on the house. That afternoon we flew back to our normal life in Vancouver.  But six months later our lives changed.

Alex was diagnosed with lymphoma.  He endured months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. We shifted priorities and reconsidered our retirement schedule.   We made double mortgage payments, sold our Vancouver house, and in March of 1996, four years after discovering the empty wallet, we drove away from the rainy Northwest and headed to La Paz.

Today, if the police apprehended the person who stole our $800 nineteen years ago, I would thank the thief for the gift he inadvertently gave us – a journey that began when Alex said, “La Paz is warm and sunny.  It’ll be an adventure.” Alex was right.

     Let's buy a house today!

Ramblings of a Wise or Perhaps Foolish Older Woman

My brother Timmy came home from Korea in 1953 and did something wise, and perhaps something foolish. He enrolled in accounting school, and he bought a bright yellow 1949 Chevy convertible.  (this photo looked similian to Timmy's car)

Like the dutiful Greek son he was, he took our mother and father for the first ride. Then his girlfriend. Finally, my two older sisters and I got to jump in. The Boston evening smelled of springtime. I tilted my head back and watched the tree branches zip overhead, and I promised myself that some day I would own a yellow convertible. I was nine years old. 

After graduation from accounting school, Timmy got a job at a large insurance company and wrote lists of numbers on large sheets of “eye-ease green” paper. He also got married and had a son. His dream car got left behind along the staid pathway of his mature life. The blood that stirred him to buy that car drained out of him a drop at a time. But without his knowledge he’d planted a dream in my heart.

I was 21, newly married, pregnant, and poor when my new husband totaled his big Buick. I can’t remember why we went to the junkyard, but I’ll never forget the moment I saw it – a 1960 Nash Metropolitan black and white convertible. (the photo below looks exactly like our car but ours had lots of dents and scratches) We paid $125 cash. We drove him home, proud as any new parents. The car had only one major problem – a manual transmission that was reluctant to shift from first to second gear. But if you played with the gearshift carefully, it could be done. The other problem was strictly mine – I’d never learned to drive a manual. Like many girls my age I was an expert in shifting my boyfriends’ cars, but I never actually touched the clutch pedal. One day I wanted to go grocery shopping and Alex didn’t.  I called his bluff.  

“Then I’ll just go alone,” I said. “Give me the keys.”  He handed them to me.  Stunned I sat behind the wheel wondering how I’d gotten myself in this mess. “Okay, Judy, you’ve seen him do this at least 50 times,” I told myself. “You can do it.”

I drove the two miles to the grocery store in first gear. People stared and cars honked. Two hours and $30 later I was bucking my way back home and there was Alex walking toward me.  He hollered, “Judy, you’ve been gone forever - are you okay?” 

“Of course I’m okay – climb in.”  

In 1965 $30 bought six bags of groceries, so the only place for Alex to sit was on the trunk with his feet hanging into the tiny area behind the seats. Those bags held Alex’s legs steady so he didn’t flip over backward as I jerked all the way to our apartment. With hours of practice, I learned to smoothly slip through the gears of the Nash as well as my first year of marriage. But once our daughter was born and she outgrew the car bed we’d wedged into the back, we sold the car and bought a sensible Oldsmobile 98. 

My dream was put on hold until 1984 when we could afford to become a two-car family. It was May in Minnesota. The snow was melted and spring fever hit me hard. The newest incarnation of my dream was the color of root beer sprinkled with flecks of gold. An MG Midget. So small I could easily roll down the passenger window from the driver’s seat. I was 35, going on 17. I took the straight Minnesota roads as fast as that brave little car would go. And then winter came. Minnesota winter was unlike anywhere I’d lived. Weeks of 30 degrees below zero. Little car was no match for that climate. Most mornings he couldn’t start. In April I admitted defeat. We sold that baby car and once again I followed my brother’s path and bought a practical car. 

Fast forward to my 64^th summer. We are on a “fixed income” – translation semi-poor. And, although my dream never died, I decided to be content test-driving small convertible sports cars. I have photos of me driving 12 cars that summer, and in each photo I’m wearing a huge toothy smile. It was a very good summer. 

For my 65^th birthday, Alex bought me a 2006 Mazda Miata, automatic, with air conditioning. (The photo above IS my car but I've added a few scratches since we bought it!)  I’m in love. Zoom is quick and cute. He loves curves. He zips up mountain roads. But he’s not yellow. He’s shiny black. The salesman said we could have him painted. The cost would be between six and eight thousand dollars. My husband said, “Judy, you look sexy in black” – translation “Are you crazy – we’re not paying eight thousand dollars to paint a perfectly good car.” Most days I agree it would be foolish. But at times I return to the original dream that was born the day I first sat in my brother’s yellow convertible.

Did Timmy do a foolish thing when he bought his yellow 1949 Chevy convertible, or did he do a foolish thing when he sold it? His wife has died, his son lives far away, and there are no grandchildren. Timmy is 81 years old. He still drives a sensible big car. Maybe I’ll suggest that he test-drive a yellow sporty convertible. And, of course, have his photo taken as he sits behind the wheel. I’d love to see that picture of my brother wearing the smile of the young man I remember.

Friends say that we should drive Zoom to La Paz but when I called to see if Mazda stocks a cattle guard to attach to the front of Zoom, the salesperson thought I was joking.  Zoom might deflect a chicken that’s crossing Route 1but if we hit anything larger than a rooster we’d all be in trouble.  So, Zoom spends his winters in San Diego and while we’re in La Paz every time I open my computer, I’m greeted with a photo of Zoom  that proves that this  older American woman has made a wise decision – I’m living the dream that my brother planted in my heart many years ago.

What Kind of a Place is This???

Living in a foreign country is a life-altering experience.  Different customs, unusual foods and a new language challenge our ability to adapt.  We try.  We really do.  But sometimes we mess up.  Humility and the capacity to laugh at ourselves can help.

When Alex and I visited mainland Mexico it was as if we’d entered a different Mexico.  We stuffed our Honda full of clothing, our pillows, goose-down comforter and a coffee percolator.  And lots of maps.  With a flexible agenda and no hotel reservations, we felt prepared for our two-month adventure. 

We have photos and good memories of Carnaval in Veracruz,  pyramids, cenotes (deep sink holes) in Yucatan, and Alex being cleansed by chanting Aztecs outside the Cathedral in Mexico City.  But super, 3-D memories require being shocked.

We’d had a long hard day.  We approached Puebla at midnight.  Our eyes were unfocused and our stomachs growled.   The beltway that hugs the city was so dark we couldn’t read the signs.  Or our map.  We’d circled the city four times. Traffic whizzed by.  We felt frustrated and scared.  Alex said, “I’m exhausted.  Let’s forget Puebla.”  We took the next exit and luck was with us.  We spotted a motel. Alex unclenched his grip on the steering wheel, and I threw the useless map into the back seat.

The motel entrance was barred. We stopped at the barrier and a tired voice greeted us through a speaker system similar to McDonalds.  That speaker should have been our first clue.  I leaned across Alex and asked the cost for a room. “$200 pesos ($16.67 U.S.) por ocho horas.”  That was the second clue.

She said that she’d send someone to collect the money.  Third clue.  We drove into the private garage and lowered the door.  Our accommodations were huge and immaculate – although, it did seem strange that the ashtrays were glued onto the tables.   

The doorbell rang.  But the only door led into the garage. I yelled, “Hola” from inside the room.  A female voice yelled back, “Hola.”  I asked, “Donde estas?”  “Outside”, she replied.   I lifted the garage door and saw a shock-faced woman looking at me.  I yelled for Alex.  He came, paid her, and asked for a receipt. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline.  She said they didn’t have receipts. Fourth clue.   

Alex said what he always says after a long trip, “I’m starving – let’s go eat.”  I lifted the phone and requested a taxi (we weren’t going to risk getting lost again).  A familiar voice asked if we were checking out.  We’d been in the room for less than ten minutes!  I explained that we were hungry and asked for a restaurant recommendation. She said, “If you leave, you can’t come back.” Clue five.  But sometimes when you’re tired you’re clueless.  

I said that my husband was hungry and we wanted to go for a walk.  I imagined her rolling her eyes.  She mumbled to someone then said, “Okay, no problema.”  

I hung up and looked at Alex.  He didn’t need any more clues.  “It’s a no-tell motel.” he smirked.

After dinner, we hailed a cab and I realized that I’d have to give the driver the name of our motel.  My face felt hot.  I felt like the “other woman”.  Our eyes met in the rear view mirror but, to his credit, he didn’t crack a smile.

In the morning, with twenty minutes left until our eight hours departure time, we sat in bed sipping coffee. I noticed a device protruding into the room.  Alex went to investigate.  A small door slid open.  On the other side was a revolving shelf.  Coffee flew out of my nostrils.  We were supposed to put the $200 pesos on the shelf and close the door.  That way we would be invisible.  No wonder the woman looked amazed when I opened the garage door.  It was a “no-see-no-tell  motel”.

But I’ve learned that La Paz has everything that the mainland has.  Including No-Tell motels.  On a day when we were feeling adventurous, I sat in the car, grabbed my 29-zoom camera and Alex went to investigate. The prices were listed. I think that $350 pesos for a four-hour adventure is cheap. Particularly if we split the cost with another couple. No, it would be so much more fun if I invited four women friend.  We could have pizza delivered.  And play Mexican Train for a few hours.  Now THAT would be something we could talk about when we get old.  So, if you see my white Honda pulling into a “no-tell motel” with four women, don’t gossip because I’m merely doing research for a future article.  

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.