Cervantino festival and other days

It has been a while, but I have a good excuse: for the last 3 weeks we have been attending daily concerts as part of the annual Cervantino festival. It has been a wonderful experience: we attended classical ballet, ballet folklorico, jazz, symphonic works, medieval and baroque music. At lunchtime today we took the bus to the Templo Valenciana, where 14th-16th century music was performed by an American and Mexican group, in front of one of the richest altars I have ever seen. Pure magic.
It has been an amazing experience and we are in awe of the organization behind it. Every day, every day for three weeks five to six events were staged in different venues, and it all came off without a hitch. The logistics for such an undertaking must have been staggering. We constantly meet new people and our life is the richer for it. Louis stayed with us for 10 days, and he had to hit the ground running. We had gotten him tickets too. Last week, for his last three days here, we went to Morelia and Patzcuaro, not too far away, unless you get lost as we did. Morelia is an old Spanish colonial city, much more so than Guanajuato, which is essentially a late 18th-early 19th century town. We walked around, shopped in the lookie-lookies and puttered on to Patzcuaro, where we stayed two nights in an old hotel (like all Spanish buildings, it had several courtyards) right on the main square. A lovely city, laid out in the Spanish style: a strict gridwork of streets, the main square ringed by all the symbols of power: the church, the governor’s palace, city hall, filled in by arcades with lively outdoor cafes. Lively, that is, until 9pm, when, as if heeding a silent call, everything shuts down. Having gotten used to late evening dinners it took us by surprise. The first night we ended up in a small Mexican restaurant with a simple menu. The owner was sitting by himself a table away, and ordered the waiter to serve us a glass of tequila ‘on the house’, and we sipped some of the very good stuff that comes from a Don Pablo bottle. Before we could finish our glasses, he offered an other shot. In short, when the evening was done and we had shut down the place, the bottle was empty. In that we were helped by a Chilean couple with whom we joined forces and tables that night. An unexpected encounter and pleasure had it been Allentown that night, instead of Mexico.
At a concert we met Martin and Mary, Irishmen, who had chosen to live in Perth Australia, and were now traveling for three months in Mexico. Mary is a linguist at the U of Dublin, on an extended stay, and Martin a physical therapist. They had traveled all over the world, had taught and worked in Japan for 5 years, trekked the Himalayas etc. Funny and warm as Irishmen are, and we spent a few lovely evenings together at our house. They left for Oaxaca and further adventures. Someday I would like to figure out how people in their early 40’s can afford such a life. If I do I will pass it on to those of you not unredeemingly beyond that age.
We did some great shopping in Patzcuaro and surrounding villages and unashamedly filled the car trunk. If you are a shopper, Guanajuato is not the best place to flash your credit card. Not much good art stuff, lots of cheap goodies for the tourist trade, with the Mexican penchant for gaudynesss in mind. But talk about Morelia and Patzcuaro! Angels, some beautiful prints and embroideries, books, some clothes and all those little things that are so irresistible when you cruise through the markets. Born shoppers know of what I speak. A whole new set of dishes, weighing a ton. (Ruth, a 97-year old friend, wondered: are these weapons? when she lifted her plate during a farewell lunch for Branko a few days ago. We will miss him).
We have become friends with Djamilia, first viola in the Guanajuato Symphony and, like all members of the University of Guanajuato Symphony Orchestra, a full-time faculty member, and like almost a third of the members, a Russian. What a lovely woman, sweet and unpretentious, delighted to meet Anna and learn that she is historian: her daughter wants to continue her studies in history and Djamilia believes that Anna can be a very influential example. We now know a few members and feel very much like the ‘in’ crowd. Of course, everybody knows people in the orchestra, but for us it is a new experience.
After a very informative evening with Federico, the papermaker, I have decided to concentrate more on photography and learn to stay away from taking postcard pictures. Federico has a very good eye and an intuitive sense for composition and color (he is trained graphic artist). Federico, being Federico with the Italian side of him coming to the surface, was already talking about an exhibition. Most, most flattering. But, he warned me, he was going to show samples of my pix to other artists, who might not be as kindly disposed as he is. I’ll see.
We have been here for two months and that is hard to believe. Time has flown by and in fact we have been so busy that we decided to take a few days of rest next week, with puttering around the main dish on the menu.
We have to start thinking of the work in and around the house we want to have done while we are away. Plan for a smooth half year before we will return next June. Anna’s last semester, the end of a long teaching career. She is a woman who is more than ready. After next semester we will no longer have work obligations that can mess with our plans and calendar (work is such a nuisance, isn’t it?) and we’ll take it from there. No fixed plans yet, lots of ideas.
The town is filled with tourists, mostly Mexicans, and the various arms of the police forces are well represented on the streets to keep things smooth and orderly. You drink on the street, you pee in the corner, you disobey a traffic sign and it is the caboose for you. And it is amazing that with thousands and thousands of people out on the streets, food vendors every 10 yards, that the streets and squares are virtually spotless. The Sanitation department works 24/7 here (literally) and it shows. Had this festival been held in Allentown you’d be wading ankle deep through the trash. Hats off, for sure.
Early November Anna will take over the teaching duties of her friend Karen for a week. Karen is the local head of a CIEE study abroad program at the U of Gto. In November too we expect a 4-day visit by an old friend of Anna’s. And then it’ll be time to begin packing and what-not for the return home, perhaps just in time for the birth of my daughter Lynn’s first child, who will join her sister’s son Bentley as the pair of grandchildren of a proud grandfather (how old is a man like me?)
No pix in this blog. I posted two albums on the web, which you can access by typing : http://picasaweb.google.com/adriaan41 in your navigation bar. Perhaps you feel tempted to contemplate a trip to Mexico, but I must warn you: if you are not a good and sturdy walker, Guanajuato is not your kind of place. Lots of walking here, and even terrain was only achieved by sacrificing local labor in the past, until they ran out of Indians I guess. In any event, for Guanajuato you must be in pretty good shape.
(And Anna goes to yoga class three times a week, at 8 am!, as if we don’t get enough exercise.) ‘No yo’, as we say in my part of the garden where the wine is served.

September

Much has happened. In the grand scheme of things they are trivial, but for us daily life is still full of surprises.
One night, with Jose and Estella for dinner, we mention that the gates to the parking area are sagging and hard to operate. Jose is the man who takes care of our house. ‘No problema, Hank’ he says and we nod wisely. We know all about ‘No problema’. The next morning Heremina and Don Jose come to the house for the weekly cleaning (what a luxury!) and we leave for a leisurely breakfast at the Plaza San Fernando nearby (They play Dave Brubeck in the serenity of an early morning). We return home and find two men messing around with our exterior fuse box. Instant panic: we remember the guys with wire cutters ready to disconnect us. However, these men are connecting their arc welder to a 220 Volt line. Three hours later the gates are back in operating position. New braces, new supports. No problema. The next morning!
A long-standing wish to replace the ugly plastic chairs on the patio took us on a bus trip to Dolores Hidalgo. We wanted ‘equipal’ (sticks and leather) chairs, only made in Guadalajara, and very, very hard to find around here. We arrived and asked around. Anna found a shoe store (where else?), and was given the address of the store where to buy them. We took a cab, found the place and were informed that perhaps mid-October a new shipment of chairs would arrive. But: ‘go back to the traffic light, turn right and 300 meters down the road you’ll find Arte Mexicano.’ It was a long walk at mid-day, but Arte Mexicano had stacks of the desired chairs. In no time we placed our order and asked about possible delivery to our house, more than an hour away. ‘No problema’’, we’ll be there today. At 8:30 that evening the owner and his wife showed up, their van loaded with seven chairs. Is there any place on earth where you get that kind of attention? We sit back in awe and count our fortune cookies.

September 16 was Independence Day in Mexico. The day when the ‘Grito’ is read all over Mexico. The ‘Grito’ (the ‘Shout’) is the call for Independence, issued in 1810 by Padre Hidalgo on the steps of his church in Dolores Hidalgo. The ‘conspiracy’ to overthrow by force the Spanish colonial regime was betrayed and Padre Hidalgo, one of the leaders, prematurely issued his call to rise up and defeat the Spanish. Ultimately the leaders were captured here in Guanajuato and beheaded. At 11 o’clock at night, allegedly the time of his grito, and every year since 1940, his words echo all over Mexico.


Our neighbors, part-time residents here, who, as a family of three sisters, own a beautiful hacienda above us, had invited us for the celebration. ‘What time shall we come?’ we asked. ‘Eight o’clock would be fine.’ We know about 'la hora Latina’ and arrived at nine. ‘We thought you wouldn’t come’, and were the first ones to arrive. The extended family, gathered here for the celebration, dribbled in during the next hour. Wine and tequila, and lots of good talk. Anna and I left them at 10:30 to go to witness the reading of the grito. Thousands and thousands of people were packed in the square, flags waving, a mariachi band blasting music, keeping spirits high. Babies on shoulders, people jostling for a better view. The wonderful (and seductive!) smell of greasy tortillas con carne filling the air.
The grito was read: at every call, at every exhortation thousands shouted ‘Viva!’, and when the Mayor had done the deed, we were covered by foam spray from pressure cans. Who knows where that tradition started? Fireworks erupted, and we pushed our way back through the crowd,
The neighbors had invited us back to their house afterwards, and served a four-course dinner at midnight. At one o’clock, tired and with too much to eat, we staggered home. Mexicans know a lot more about living than we do.

We walk and walk and get to know the street vendors; notice the small things of daily life. Where to get avocados and ripe figs. Where to buy a drill bit, where to find flower pots. Walking is not easy here. Mexicans have no sense of order, and will cut into any line as a matter of fact. Not using elbows, simply inserting their bodies into any open space. Hugging the wall on the corner, they find space between you and a stone wall. There is no such thing as walking on the right side of the sidewalk and holding a steady course: navigating your way people cross in front of you and force you to the left. Mexicans seek the opening, although their pace is slower than mine. They come to a sudden stop to chat with friends, and you almost crash into them. Meeting friends is so much more important than rushing down the street. A few days ago we were on a bus which stopped for no apparent reason. Anna and I were on our way to meet friends, and sort of in a hurry. ‘Go man, go’, I wished, but the driver had seen his girlfriend on the street and exchanged some warm and very hearty embraces with her. And, really, why not?
As a gringo in this country there is much to learn. Much to learn about the quality of life; about the pace which is slower than mine.
If I am slow to add to the blog it is a testament to life here. Mañana is not a word without meaning. But you have to live it to understand. More or less daily we read the NYT headlines online, and really, how much has changed since we left? So why spend a lot of time worrying?


We removed more garden fences and added flowerpots to improve both appearance and safety. The garden looks so much better! The geraniums are on steroids; the oleanders and bougainvilleas are in bloom. A long row of lavender plants is enjoying life and is spreading. The kitchen feeds on fresh herbs, with oranges (sort of sour) and limes for the picking. And just when we needed him the burro-man appeared . The man and his two burros, the man walking, the burros trudging. The burros laden with bags full of composted soil, 50 lbs each for 40 pesos. The mules were smiling in relief for we are impetuous buyers. Four days later he was back: more mules, more bags. Do we eat this stuff? He knew a good thing when he saw it.
He is convincing, and the thought of the long road back for him and his burros tugged at the heart strings. At this rate we’ll be selling dirt to our neighbors.

Next week we’ll rent a car and bite the bullet. The last car we rented here in February had a worn-out clutch. If you have seen, or can imagine, the steep slopes of the city, you’d know what that means. But a car will allow us to go to Leon, a serious shopping mecca. Guanajuato has no box stores: no Home Depot, Walmart, Sears nor Costco. It is a matter of civic pride to say: Oh! Those stores? They are in Leon! And people are right, they represent a manner of civil contamination. But Leon is an hour away.
I have a long, long list for Home Depot.
There is no such thing as “I want it now” when it comes to consumer goods. To want is to say: I can’t do without it, while the store is miles away and you can wait. The goodies (in the American sense) are available within a 50-mile radius, but never here. Guanajuato is the place where inventiveness and ‘no problema’ rule. It is one of the great attractions of the city. But sometimes you just lust for the Home Depot aisles: ready in a box with instructions not in Serbo-Croatian; no fuss, no drawings or designs of what you’re looking for. Ready in a box, what a concept. Who’d have thunk it?

Bureaucracy rules: the streets are full of people clutching manila folders. To not have a folder is to commit life without protection. Paperwork, adorned with seals and signatures to accomplish even the most mundane: to enroll your child in school; to obtain water service; to sell cactus leaves on the street. It’s all about documents. It’s all about standing in line, getting a number. It’s all about having a number and no place to go. On the other side of the counter a woman smiles at you and sends you home. One more piece of paper. Preparation does not help, for the rules change. (An American in the Immigration Office in San Miguel, waiting for his visa, said it well: “There is nothing more satisfying than to hear the sound of a rubber stamp coming down on your papers!”).
The system keeps a lot of people busy, and that, most likely, is what it is all about. Don’t disturb a way of life that has been afloat for centuries.
It is never about the papers in your hand, it is about the Kafka’esque process. And in that I fail. I wish to establish a process and run into Eskimos who are told to build igloos with bricks. It does not work that way. And, if you know the Mayor, well, of course, ‘no problema’. I don’t know the Mayor and for that reason we do not disconnect the TV, telephone or Internet when we leave. It was hard enough to get connected. Don’t mess with what works: it’s worth the extra pesos.

We are awaiting Louis’s arrival next week, and will attend as many events of the Cervantino festival as we can. A 3-day trip to Patzcuaro and Morelia is planned. Late October Anna’s old friend Valerie will visit us for a few days, and then we’ll have come close to the end of our stay here. How quickly the weeks go by!

MEAT

The butcher down the street is a nice man with a beautiful smile. He keeps on the somewhat-less-than-clean countertop enormous sheets of chicharrón (fried pork skin) which he offers with a napkin to his customers. Yesterday, I went for ground pork to make, I told him, chiles enogada. He was impressed at my tackling that complicated dish. We chatted about cooking while I took miniscule nibbles of my chicharrón and wondered how to get rid of it. After I had wrapped it in a napkin explaining that I wanted to save some for my husband, he ripped off another huge sheet for my esposo. We continued to chat about various Mexican dishes. I said I would like to make cochinito pibil one day and how do you say pork butt in Spanish. Well, he wasn’t sure that pork butt was what I wanted. He opened his refrigerated show case, brought out a hunk of meat and laid it on the still not-so-clean counter. This he said is the butt. Then out came another, laid next to it. These are the lower ribs. Next the upper ribs, the shoulder, a leg. “Look at this beautiful tenderloin. It comes from here.” Soon the entire pig was on the counter and I was treated to his idea of how to best cook each of these cuts. After about 45 minutes, I thanked him for the anatomy lesson, a kilo of chicken backs for soup, that he insisted was a “regalo,” and the chicharrón, my piece of which was starting to cause grease stains on my pants pocket where I had shoved it earlier.

Santa Rosa

On Friday we were going to Santa Rosa, half an hour from here, higher up, much higher up in the mountains. But then we didn’t because the plumber came. Not just a plumber to replace the kitchen sink, but a man armed with hammers and chisels, and an assortment of pipes, faucets and connector rings. It all started with Anna saying to Jose Gutierrez, our realtor and house manager, that she’d like a bigger sink. No problema, Anna, I have a big sink for you, deeper and with two basins. He just happened to have one, or thereabouts. He knew a plumber and, as we are fond of saying: Bob is your uncle. Days later we encounter dust on the second floor. The kitchen counter was constructed with German bunker blue prints as a guide: 3 inches of cement, braced with rebar. It took some hacking and sawing, but six hours later water flowed onto seamless stainless steel, no water dripped from the connections and we could not have been happier. One day, from conception to completion! Only in Mexico! It never fails to amaze us.

Before that we had more railings cut down in the garden, unfortunately also a small section that was the anchor for the alley-side wall.. Now we need a welder to put it back in again. Jose assures us that he can get us someone. ‘And don’t think about the small section of wall you want to build’. Words as sweet as honey.
Then we did go to Santa Rosa, on a dreary day, in the comfort of a long-distance Mercedes Benz bus, leaning back in our first-class airplane seats, climbing and climbing on a twisting mountain road, until we arrived at the Santa Rosa stop, shivering at near cloud-like altitude.
Santa Rosa is at first glance like all other small Mexican villages: a solitary dog on a deserted street, forlorn decorations from a past fiesta, half finished houses a testimony to dreams not realized.

But you walk around, avoiding rivulets of water after a heavy rain, and see the plants and flowers in gardens, patios, and on rooftops. You take in the sweetest smile of the young woman in the small restaurant, and smile in turn when someone says ‘hi’ to you in the street in response to our ‘buenos dias’. A small tienda, a cooperative of five women, with heavenly smells around. What smells so good? we ask, and are led to the working area of the store where walnuts are roasted with sugar. Two bags, for sure, you don’t want to run out. And a jar of that mango jelly.
We had heard of a pottery in town, and found it easily. Hundreds upon hundreds of plates, vases, cups and dishes, as far as the eye could see. Made for export; big cartons with markings that said ‘Canada’. Pretty ugly stuff though, if you ask me, but we did find a small dish we liked. What can you do? Here we are, two gringos, walking into this deserted store, stretching out over three levels, a young and hopeful woman hovering around, ready at the first suggestion of interest? You buy something, that’s what you do. The small square dish now sits on the living room table. Five years from now we will look at it and say: ’Remember that day we went to Santa Rosa?’
Santa Rosa stays with you. The cathedral rises above all, across from the garage and feed store. On our way we shared the ride with several old women, holding large bouquets of flowers. We found them again in the church yard, waiting for a funeral. We looked into the church (its doors were still closed), and saw inside the simplicity of a Shaker or Moravian church. Plain benches, a table with green cloth serving as altar. Old women who had come to pay their respects. This you can not ignore: the passage of time. Mexicans do it better than we do. In that, I think, lies the appeal of a village like Santa Rosa: the continuation.

Santa Rosa has power but no running water. Children and old people bring buckets to the street and fill them with water gurgling out of rubber hoses, mostly buried below the pavement. If no one is there to fill a bucket, a drum is placed to receive the water, which will serve as reserve supply until the next bucket. There is only one Pepsi Cola sign, and it is right behind the Elementary School. At the edge of town, where the pavement of rough stones is losing the battle against eroding rain waters, where old cars wear out their clutches on the steep incline, a young boy bursts forth from a small house to greet us. He had seen us from his garden.

We attempted to get money out of an ATM. All of that started with the desire to simplify our life. Jose had told us that we could pay our utility bills directly via our bank, a great idea, given that our power had almost been cut off two weeks before for non payment. It seemed like a good idea to put some pesos into our bank account, but our bank’s ATM was out of commission (or out of money). Next door, behind Alcatraz-like bars, we found another ATM. There are very few variations on our experiences with Mexican banks and offices, and we should not have been surprised. I enter the amount I want (need is another story), and nothing happens. Except that the receipt shows that the money was taken out of our account. We know how to grin and bear it. Eventually it all worked out, after meeting some very solicitous and unwaveringly polite managers.
Tomorrow, Monday, we’ll go to San Miguel de Allende for a few days. Our friends Gill and Jerry Schofer were more than generous in offering the use of their house while they were away, and we will put it to good use. We’ll go shopping for garden furniture, and spend endless hours in the Immigration Office, trying to figure out what papers (and how many copies) we will need to re-new my Mexican visa.
Meanwhile we wait for a delivery of garden plants from Julie and her architect husband Pepe, and we’ll wait until their VW bus is running again.
Pepe is a Gaudi, the wilder the better. In California he built a houseboat for himself and Julie, floating on Styrofoam. It rocked like crazy. An office he built in the top of concrete palm trees, and the birdcage in their nursery is constructed from a wheelbarrow, toaster lids, chicken wire and a carfender. A man of great and playful imagination, We hope they can fix their van and we'll have them over for drinks and dinner.

On the bus home from the Telmex office we are joined by a man, no more than seven years old. He positions himself against an empty seat next to us, displays his randomly arranged teeth in a mirthless smile and produces the tools of his trade: a ribbed piece of wood and a metal hair pick. Not much music can be produced with such. He does not really try, this old man. Where is his mother? With a tenuous grip on the three-note scale he sings his way from bus stop to bus stop, one eye on the 2-peso coin in my hand. Religious fanaticism marks his work for three stops, blandly segueing to torrid goings-on in the bushes between a young man and his amour. He collects three pesos and is replaced by a young man handing out leaflets, which Anna takes for political propaganda. Not. You accept the paper, you listen to the spiel from the back of the bus, and you are asked for a donation. How much change can a man hold in his pockets?
Telmex, a never-never land where the brothers Grimm found their inspiration. Ostensibly a telephone office, yet full of surprises. We talked of that before.
Blog. What a strange word. It evokes images of a deep-sea world. But then, ‘table’ is a strange word too: say it out loud five times and it looses all meaning. I blog with only the faintest notion of what it is supposed to look like.
We have shopped and decorated, talked with Jaime who frames pictures for us; Jose Louis the welder who will cut fences and install them in Branko’s house. Don Bernardo, who sells us flowers and brings Anna plants for the garden; the newspaper vendor, too old and dignified to exchange names with, and who accepts my ‘buenos dias’ every morning when I exchange 6 pesos for the A.M. newspaper. The tamales lady on the corner of Dos Rios, who smiles in recognition and sells us a very occasional tamale, mindful as we are of the bundled-in calories.
Guanajuato is seductive: it takes a while to take her in, but once you do she is part of you. I don’t write travelogues; magazines and newspapers do a much better job of it. If you want more pix and history try this Guanajuato site orthis site
Joan and Lud left Monday morning to go back to their lives in Allentown. As if the town were ours, we showed them around with the pride of ones responsible for it. Just as we open the front door to walk them down to the main street to catch a cab for the airport, two pleasant men in blue overalls are preparing to cut off our electric power. To this end they have a clipboard with instructions (#1), and a serious pair of wire cutters (#2). In utter panic I stumble through the niceties of meeting strangers and call out for Anna. A man needs to know his limitations. ‘Buenos dias’ all around, in that we do not fail. The fruits of a good upbringing. But the wire cutters are not holstered. Lud and Joan are ready to leave while disaster looms. Just last week we finally got full power back after five days of service requests, and here are representatives of that same outfit ready to cut us off. The clipboard lists an unpaid bill, hence their unfortunate mission. Unpaid? Not possible, we say. Yes, unpaid. We plead and promise greased lightning. We are on the way to the Electric Co office, right now. Please don’t cut us off. (The night before we met an acquaintance who had forgotten to pay her bill upon her return from a trip home to the US. She was cut off and implored the company for a week to restore service. She finally resorted to an illegal hook-up by a local electrician). ‘Don’t tell the office that we were here, because we have orders,’ said the men. These are the words of Kafka: an unseen authority, unknown but heeded. We promise and we don’t. In the taxi we wonder if this isn’t some sort of scam they are trying out on gringos, and in retrospect I wonder if I should not have whipped out my wallet right away.
Inside the office we stand in line for half an hour. While Anna waits and two men are running around unchecked with cutters, I run to an ATM to arm us with sufficient funds to bribe an ethicist. Our turn comes, and one minute later we stand outside in the blazing sun, on a sharply sloping street. We owe 51 pesos, less than $5. Apparently Jose Gutierrez, who takes care of our bills while we’re away, had failed to notice this insignificant amount. Do you have any idea how menacing wire cutters can be? Very.
How fortunate we are not to hear rap music. We do hear ‘Los Tigres de Norte’ at a very early hour, blasting from the hill side across. Or, 60’s music from the French painter who lives across from us. Federico adds classical cello music (“It is a great day,” he says walking by’ “a great day to live!”). I sit on the patio and hear at first a cacophony, until all music blends into a mélange hard to describe, a composite sound that is the daily backdrop of our lives. Yesterday, when Anna was cooking a fabulous meal, I wondered what it would take to capture both visual and olfactory images in one medium. It would mean a whole new technology, somewhat analogous to image and sound in the ‘talkies’. There are novels describing food, and reading them we taste and smell.




We don’t really know her, this French woman, but her name is Claude and her dog is called Bonnie. Federico, the paper maker below us, claims she is a wonderful painter, but then, Federico is given to exaggeration. Claude comes home late at night, and her dog (is he a companion or merely a defense from amorous Mexicanos?) sets off the two German Shepherds who live their lives under our bedroom window, locked in behind fences, surrounded by their own excrement.
There is rain and then there are downpours of biblical proportions. The last few days we have experienced the latter. Hurricane Dean wends its way across Mexico, its tentacles spreading wide and far. No wind, just menacing dark clouds filling the sky in the Guanajuato valley. The city declared an emergency, a full-blown red alert for flooding. The presas (reservoirs) above the city are in danger of overflowing, and send floods into the lower downtown. Schools were closed for the day (much like Allentown, where a mere snowflake causes massive interruption of public services). Nothing happened. We follow the news about the Yucatan where serious damage was inflicted. Again, we thank our stars having left the Tulum beach.
In the garden the ficus tree sheds great numbers of berries. Like hail they clatter on the paving stones and bounce off the glass-top table. We are the fortunate owners of a female tree. Who would have thought? It is clear to me that the tree itself has no faith in its own ability to procreate: why else drop so many berries?
Jerry and Gill visited us yesterday: they came for a few days to San Miguel de Allende (SMA), where they have a house. Anna and I hop aboard a plane once in a while, and we think of ourselves as quite the travelers. Compared to them we are pikers! They generously offered us the use of their house in SMA, which will allow us to spend more time there to go shopping. Gto is wonderful and pleases all of the senses, but it cannot satisfy our deeply rooted shopping urges. A circular power saw (me), garden furniture (Anna) are high on the list. And, who knows, some artesanias? You can never have enough artwork. Our mechanism for justification is well-oiled.
Distance provides perspective. Distance between Allentown and Guanajuato.
Here, looking out the window as I write this, the randomness of the city contrasts with the order of the Pennsylvania Dutch. It seems to me that life in Allentown (or the US for that matter) is more angular, more sharply defined: There I react to events, to the larger life around me, and define myself that way. I am a democrat, I disagree with the local politics, I hate the war. My experiences are defined by what I would want to see differently.
In Gto I have lost that need to judge, to push off against that which I experience as a system and a construct. I read the local paper, read of the shenanigans of the political parties, of the venality of city council, and think: so what? What is different? And why should I worry?
Anna and I are finding a different rhythm, finding a life that has more to do with us. Are we growing old?
I attach some random images of what surrounds us. Perhaps you will get a sense of life here.
By the way: I had no idea how prophetic the title of my last blog was. ‘Figs are to die for.’ Literally. Be careful of what you wish for, or heedlessly consume.

Figs to die for

Mexico has figured out the merchant’s dilemma: how to make money and not waste time and energy on customer service. You simply do not accept anything in return or exchange. All questions can be answered with a smile and an elastic conscience: tomorrow for sure, if not today. Alternatively, where this approach does not work: right down the street, across from the green tree. With these simple tools gringos are sent on their way, either elated with the promise or despondent with unfulfilled gratification. If all else fails, the advice is to call a certain telephone number, where magicians will solve your problems.
And, yet, it works. We have electric power, and the lights glow as if to celebrate the Fourth of July. It took six days. It took a long trip to the office where we found out that all of our previous requests had been canceled because the crews could not find our house. Not surprising, because records showed directions not entirely approaching reality. Anna argued with the gerente to change directions to our house, but his computer was adamant.
Somewhat downcast we returned home, full of doubt and with serious loss of confidence. But there they were, two hours later: two guys with a truck and a ladder, who re-connected us to the net with the optimism and determination of men on a first date.

The ‘fridge hums, the espresso maker, when plugged in, no longer throws the house into depressing darkness.
Who would have thought that flipping a light switch could be so satisfying?
On Sunday we went to the Gene Byron museum, an old hacienda where musicians play lovely Sunday afternoon music in colonial splendor. How we felt at home again. We missed Branko and Vincent, but made new friends. After wine and tapas in the hacienda courtyard, we went into town, and visited everyone’s house, until we ended up in Santa Rosa, way up in the mountains, where we ran out of wine and where the only restaurant was closed. Down the mountain, to Sandra and Ron’s house for an impromptu dinner and muchas bebidas. They drove us home, thank heavens, for I would have never found my way back.
Anna has been sewing with needle and thread (the seamstress across the street closed shop) and made us a table cloth for the garden.

We did not manage to change the owner’s name on the water bill; we blew out the computer modem as well as two wireless phones and a TV, and met Julie, who runs a gardening center in Marfil. Her great grandfather fled Germany’s Black Forest to avoid the draft in the 1870’s, and her family ended up in Vancouver. Somehow, the way our lives are constructed, she married a Mexican architect she met in Puerto Vallarta, and here she is with the smile of a mother and the gentleness of voice which seduces. This morning she pulled up at our house (“I am a Norte Americana and I show up on time), in a 20-year old VW bus, bringing us the pots and plants, and bags and bags of soil we ordered from her. The dirt is still under our nails, but the garden and patio look wonderful.
Now that electrical problems are behind us and we no longer have to stay at home to meet and greet phantom repairmen, we walk the streets and feast on the richness of daily life here.

Joan and Lud arrived yesterday afternoon, wonderful to share with them our life in Gto. Anna made dinner, we sat in the garden and sipped, then walked downtown. Tonight a concert in the Teatro Juarez, and dinner at Frascati’s on the main square.
The street vendors offer riches, the market seduces, and we feast like kings.
Shrimp with salsa verde for tonight, made by Anna.
And figs for desert, figs with Roquefort.
Figs to die for.

The trip and arrival

We found a dime in the Cleveland airport, ate a gnarly bagel in Houston and arrived in Guanajuato. The customs officer cast a wary eye on our pile of luggage, but we hit the green light and passed. The taxi driver hoisted 2 50-pound suitcases onto the roofrack, assured us that the rope he used was of formidable strenghth, and off we were. The cab's clutch was badly worn, and we barely made it up our callejon. We huffed and puffed in encouragement.
The house is beautiful, and the work that was done during our absence impressive. Once I get organized here, I'll send pix.
We had been informed that there was a minor problem with one of the light dimmers, and foolishly had dismissed the news. How bad could that be?
Bad. The house is operating on half power, which means that when you turn the kitchen lights on, the livingroom assumes the athmosphere of a Paris night club. To make the computer work we need to turn on the lights on the stairway. Decent bedroom light is available by swithcing on a hallway light. No fridge, no hairdryer, no espresso machine.
The electrician has not yet shown up, nor has the power company. But we have a basket-full of promises.
We walked downtown and felt at home. This is a lovely city.
We're hanging pictures, making a book case, licking an icecream and sipping (if not guzzling) a vino blanco in the pm. Anna can't wait to start shopping in the market, but we have to wait for the fridge to come on line.
One hour after we arrived a huge thunderstorm dumped tons of water, and, for one half hour, mothball-sized hail! Headlines in the paper. This is really weird.
But who cares? We have shrimp cocktails in the market and are checking out the cultural calendar. Lots of stuff going on here!
Stay in touch.

Robin and Julie

We are sharing this blog with Robin and Julie. None of this tech stuff would have been possible without Robin's help and encouragement.
Check their blog whenever you feel like it by clicking
here!

Welcome!

We're leaving for Mexico, schlepping about 300 pounds of stuff. It can't come soon enough for us, with Allentown temperatures hovering around the 100 mark.
Check our blog and feel free to make comments. Enter http://www.hankandanna.blogspot.com in your navigation bar. Send your personal e-mail to the regular hankandanna@hotmail.com or aadams@muhlenberg.com.
Hasta Noviembre, que les vayan bien.
Hank and Anna