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!