It was just about perfect.
We've been in La Cruz for over 4 months and I have it dialed. This is good because I checked out of the country four days ago... I'm ticking things off my list--getting them done at N American speed. I catch the bus into Puerto Vallarta and walk to my friend Hilario's shop. I've never seen it before and it's impressive. No wonder he drives a late model BMW SUV. There are two floors of lathes and milling machines. The kind of machines that, given the right raw materials and direction, can make an identical copy of themselves--I love that thought. And there's art on the walls, each piece with its own custom fabricated metal pedestal. But no HIlario, I feel a slight hesitation in my momentum but soon spot one of his workers who knows me and I wave him over. I tell Jesus what I need and he starts to tell me how they're actually not working today so I'll have to come back Monday. I hit him with a pause. "I'll be back in an hour...with lots of money." We part laughing, knowing he's not going to have it done in an hour and I'm not going to have lots of money BUT I'll have it today and he'll get paid. In an hour I spot Hilario. He's determined to drive me wherever I need to go so we're off. I ask him what's his key to finding good workers and he says his best guys are the ones who started out sweeping the floor. I file that nugget away.
We stop at "Bolt World". I buy bolts, Hilario ribs the owner while the owner talks trash about Hilario to me. This is good guy fun we're having at "Bolt World." Next we have lunch, lunch transcends good guy fun--this is something. Bellied up against the sidewalk around the corner from "Bolt World" is a lunch wagon "Tortas Ahogadas" with a couple of tables spilling out into the street and a quiet crowd eating or waiting. We grab a table. Hilario says this type of torta is from Guadalajara and they're very hot though he quickly adds these aren't too hot...I think he's worried I'll disappoint him here but when we order I say I want mine like Hilario's. He looks at me and smiles, he says to the cook "he's practically Mexican." The cook doesn't seem impressed. He's in a routine. I watch him go through his moves, a deeply worn groove, no wasted movement. Rolls are hustled along a toasting rack, hunks of meat are chopped then stuffed inside, add some pickled onions and smother (ahogar them) with the special sauce. Boom.
We finally have ours and I just know this is going to be really good. But the first bite is a revelation. The roll is softened with the sauce but that toasting gives it a firm center that holds up like good al dente pasta. The sauce is hot but not too hot, the bread and the meat are your friends here and keep it from overwhelming, instead it creates an atmosphere in which all the flavors and textures do their thing. The meat is prime, no dubious chewy bits, just melt in your mouth rich, smokey tender chunks. Those thin slices of pickled onion and the sauce work together to balance the richness of the meat. The whole thing works together, each element balanced and enhanced by the others. OK, so I had a great sandwich.
We get back in the car, return to the shop and sure enough there's my newly machined fitting ready to go. I go through the formality of asking Hilario what I can give him for it and as usual he says "nothing." I give Jesus a goodly sum and I'm off to catch the bus back to La Cruz. The next thing I notice is a group of rowdy teenagers get on the bus I'm riding. They're heading to the beach, full of themselves and making too much noise in the back seats. Riding the bus often devolves into an experience that just needs to be endured and this ride is shaping up that way. The next stop, adding insult to injury, a mariachi steps on board. The bus riding mariachis tend to be the worst of their breed and sure enough the teenagers in the back start yipping and howling in mockery. As he makes his way past me I hear the mariachi say in a low growl "direct from Hollywood." He stations himself right in the middle of the teenagers and immediately hits some cords that sound fantastic. Over the next ten minutes he's easily won over the entire bus with the best live music I've heard in years. The crowd in the back sings along to a couple of the traditional songs and lets him loose to do the others on his own. At this point I'm glad to be sitting by the window with sunglasses on because I'm alternately sobbing and laughing at myself.
I love these people.
I'm really going to miss this place.
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mexico. Show all posts
Monday, July 6, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
When faced with this:
Adam frantically pages through his guide book, looking for suggestions:
Our good friends Justin and Sheila lent us the use of their boat while they're back in Canada so we work on SeaWolf and live on Iron Belle right next door!
This has to be the greatest carnival game ever--throw a rock, win a beer! Take some nice throwing rocks and some empty beer bottles and put a case of beer on ice. 10 pesos equals three rocks and every broken bottle wins you a beer. I had to take these pictures on the sly because some drunk contestants were arguing that they were owed another rock. The carny was jumping in front of the guy to keep him from throwing his bogus bonus rock, luckily he missed the bottles and the carny and stumbled away happy.
It was a bit of a saga getting SeaWolf painted and back in the water but she's now looking pretty sharp with a new tropical color scheme and a varnished transom. Nice.
Adam frantically pages through his guide book, looking for suggestions:
Our good friends Justin and Sheila lent us the use of their boat while they're back in Canada so we work on SeaWolf and live on Iron Belle right next door!
This has to be the greatest carnival game ever--throw a rock, win a beer! Take some nice throwing rocks and some empty beer bottles and put a case of beer on ice. 10 pesos equals three rocks and every broken bottle wins you a beer. I had to take these pictures on the sly because some drunk contestants were arguing that they were owed another rock. The carny was jumping in front of the guy to keep him from throwing his bogus bonus rock, luckily he missed the bottles and the carny and stumbled away happy.
It was a bit of a saga getting SeaWolf painted and back in the water but she's now looking pretty sharp with a new tropical color scheme and a varnished transom. Nice.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
I’m lying in bed watching TV with Lulu. I’ve found a channel I consider educational—it shows nothing but Mexican movies from the 1940s through the 1970s. Sure, sometimes the seventies movies are a little violent and have pimps and stuff in them, but those are usually only on late at night.
The flickering television illuminates a room in which the furniture is covered with dust, and pots and pans sit abandoned in boxes. Just outside the door, open bags of concrete and plaster mix, putty knives and paintbrushes have been left lying about haphazardly. There is no glass in the windows, just elaborate wrought iron bars. If I tried to write this scene into a movie script it would seem unlikely. My pitch would fall flat; I’d end up chucking the whole thing and starting from scratch.
Nevertheless here we are, for Adam’s coworker Eduardo has generously offered us his sister’s apartment in Vallarta, two rooms on the first floor of his own house, while we’re waiting for the boat to be painted. Adam leaves for work at 8 am and returns at 8 pm. Lulu and I explore the Vallarta area by bus. We visit the strange zoo—kind of like a petting zoo with huge wild animals. At the entrance, the ticket-seller also sells food to feed them. “Es muy divertido,” he encourages, but I decide that we should observe instead. As it turns out, the boundaries between human and animal are indistinct. The camels’ rubbery clown lips descend to ruffle the baby’s hair. A friendly giraffe head appears from the sky, curious to know if we are offering carrots.
In the afternoons, back at our new place, the family comes home. Again I observe through a permeable barrier, those iron bars that separate our space from theirs. The family is composed of a mother and father and two children—a girl, aged two-and-a-half, and a boy, aged six. A grandmother and grandfather live nearby and provide regular childcare. Over a period of one week, this researcher rarely saw the mother and father together (both parents work full-time). The group coheres, in so far as connections are made among family members, around social rituals such as what might be termed the “homework battle,” taking place for between two and four hours each school night, and the “unsupervised climb,” in which the girl mounts a spiral staircase and plays on the roof until she is noticed and chastised. Upon returning, separately, to the domestic space, the parents respond indifferently to each other, or with overtones of aggression; for example, the husband was heard to greet his wife as “bruja,” meaning witch. Sometimes the couple ignores each other, or offers merely a simple “hola.”
Anyway. By dusk, the researcher is exhausted, overly critical, and ready for some TV. This particular evening, the feature is “El Vampiro Sangriento.” How scary can it be? It must be like seventy years old. Lulu and I settle back on the pillows. The scratchy music appropriate to black and white movies begins. Some things happen, then there’s a conversation going on between a guy and a lady—OK, it’s like he gave her a crucifix, and it keeps disappearing in the night? It must be, he keeps giving her crucifixes, plural. And they’re saying how weird that is. Now they’re in a big banquet hall, and some freaky guy is sitting at the head of the table. The hero sniffs his wine and then moves his eyebrows to tell the heroine not to drink it. It's poisoned? Wait—I missed something—
And then I notice that we're lying under a filmy canopy. The sheets are soft, the pillows voluminous. Lulu is tugging at her neck—somehow she’s gotten into a kind of long, lacy dress buttoned all the way up the back that looks like it’s strangling her. I go to help and notice that I’m wearing a white gown with a plunging neckline. This is kind of cool. Suddenly a short, pointy-headed creature with fangs pops up at the window. “Que estas haciendo?” it shrieks. I look down. No crucifix! “What are you doing?” it demands again, in heavily accented English, just to make sure I understood. “You can speak Spanish,” I say irritably. “I’ll never improve if people talk to me in English.”
“Da? Da?” Lulu asks. “Dad’ll be back later,” I respond. “Right now we just have to deal with this vampire.” “Vampa?” “Yeah, but don’t worry, mom will take care of everything.” I root among the discarded cutlery for a weapon and come up with a charred wooden spoon.” “Go away!” I shout. “It’s none of your business what I’m doing.”
Just then the door opens and Adam comes in. He doesn’t seem to notice that he has on a threadbare tuxedo. “It’s kind of dark in here,” he says. “You guys don’t look too good. What’s going on?” “Uh—well—” “Quien eres? Que estas haciendo?” the vampire interrupts, in that voice like a malevolent rodent, blood dripping from its mouth as if it’s just bitten the head off something. “Jesus—what’s that?” Adam asks, startled. “What the hell happened while I was gone?” I think to myself, a lot of things have happened. We’ve started living in different worlds, one marked Man, the other Woman. And we’re both too exhausted to say anything interesting.
The vampire reappears in another of those open windows, screeching something unintelligible in Spanish. “My god, that vampire really sucks!,” Adam says, turning away. “Is there any food? I’m starving.” I walk to the kitchen, trying to ignore the terrible noise outside, and get the garlic out of the fridge. Maybe soon, we’ll be ourselves again. I don’t want to speak this language.
The flickering television illuminates a room in which the furniture is covered with dust, and pots and pans sit abandoned in boxes. Just outside the door, open bags of concrete and plaster mix, putty knives and paintbrushes have been left lying about haphazardly. There is no glass in the windows, just elaborate wrought iron bars. If I tried to write this scene into a movie script it would seem unlikely. My pitch would fall flat; I’d end up chucking the whole thing and starting from scratch.
Nevertheless here we are, for Adam’s coworker Eduardo has generously offered us his sister’s apartment in Vallarta, two rooms on the first floor of his own house, while we’re waiting for the boat to be painted. Adam leaves for work at 8 am and returns at 8 pm. Lulu and I explore the Vallarta area by bus. We visit the strange zoo—kind of like a petting zoo with huge wild animals. At the entrance, the ticket-seller also sells food to feed them. “Es muy divertido,” he encourages, but I decide that we should observe instead. As it turns out, the boundaries between human and animal are indistinct. The camels’ rubbery clown lips descend to ruffle the baby’s hair. A friendly giraffe head appears from the sky, curious to know if we are offering carrots.
In the afternoons, back at our new place, the family comes home. Again I observe through a permeable barrier, those iron bars that separate our space from theirs. The family is composed of a mother and father and two children—a girl, aged two-and-a-half, and a boy, aged six. A grandmother and grandfather live nearby and provide regular childcare. Over a period of one week, this researcher rarely saw the mother and father together (both parents work full-time). The group coheres, in so far as connections are made among family members, around social rituals such as what might be termed the “homework battle,” taking place for between two and four hours each school night, and the “unsupervised climb,” in which the girl mounts a spiral staircase and plays on the roof until she is noticed and chastised. Upon returning, separately, to the domestic space, the parents respond indifferently to each other, or with overtones of aggression; for example, the husband was heard to greet his wife as “bruja,” meaning witch. Sometimes the couple ignores each other, or offers merely a simple “hola.”
Anyway. By dusk, the researcher is exhausted, overly critical, and ready for some TV. This particular evening, the feature is “El Vampiro Sangriento.” How scary can it be? It must be like seventy years old. Lulu and I settle back on the pillows. The scratchy music appropriate to black and white movies begins. Some things happen, then there’s a conversation going on between a guy and a lady—OK, it’s like he gave her a crucifix, and it keeps disappearing in the night? It must be, he keeps giving her crucifixes, plural. And they’re saying how weird that is. Now they’re in a big banquet hall, and some freaky guy is sitting at the head of the table. The hero sniffs his wine and then moves his eyebrows to tell the heroine not to drink it. It's poisoned? Wait—I missed something—
And then I notice that we're lying under a filmy canopy. The sheets are soft, the pillows voluminous. Lulu is tugging at her neck—somehow she’s gotten into a kind of long, lacy dress buttoned all the way up the back that looks like it’s strangling her. I go to help and notice that I’m wearing a white gown with a plunging neckline. This is kind of cool. Suddenly a short, pointy-headed creature with fangs pops up at the window. “Que estas haciendo?” it shrieks. I look down. No crucifix! “What are you doing?” it demands again, in heavily accented English, just to make sure I understood. “You can speak Spanish,” I say irritably. “I’ll never improve if people talk to me in English.”
“Da? Da?” Lulu asks. “Dad’ll be back later,” I respond. “Right now we just have to deal with this vampire.” “Vampa?” “Yeah, but don’t worry, mom will take care of everything.” I root among the discarded cutlery for a weapon and come up with a charred wooden spoon.” “Go away!” I shout. “It’s none of your business what I’m doing.”
Just then the door opens and Adam comes in. He doesn’t seem to notice that he has on a threadbare tuxedo. “It’s kind of dark in here,” he says. “You guys don’t look too good. What’s going on?” “Uh—well—” “Quien eres? Que estas haciendo?” the vampire interrupts, in that voice like a malevolent rodent, blood dripping from its mouth as if it’s just bitten the head off something. “Jesus—what’s that?” Adam asks, startled. “What the hell happened while I was gone?” I think to myself, a lot of things have happened. We’ve started living in different worlds, one marked Man, the other Woman. And we’re both too exhausted to say anything interesting.
The vampire reappears in another of those open windows, screeching something unintelligible in Spanish. “My god, that vampire really sucks!,” Adam says, turning away. “Is there any food? I’m starving.” I walk to the kitchen, trying to ignore the terrible noise outside, and get the garlic out of the fridge. Maybe soon, we’ll be ourselves again. I don’t want to speak this language.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Pueblo Azúl
A play in one act
Characters:
Jessica, a white woman in her late thirties, dressed in a knee-length skirt and a sleeveless black shirt with a prominent avocado smear on one shoulder. She is never seen without
Lulu, an energetic child of about a year and a half
Adam, a white man, also in his late thirties, wearing a pair of paint-stained shorts and a t-shirt. Currently the family breadwinner.
Rat, a medium-sized rodent
Waiter, a Mexican high school student with carefully styled hair
Mariachi band, enough said
Act I, Scene 1
A one-room apartment above a restaurant in a small Mexican beach town. Outside the door, laundry hangs on a line. The Beatles’ "Imagine," played at top volume, is abruptly turned off, replaced by a blast of cumbia music. Two men can be heard arguing in Spanish. The music gradually fades as light comes up on the room shared by Jessica, Adam, Lulu, and Rat.
Toys are scattered across the floor. Five beds of different sizes have been pushed up against the walls. A plastic table, of the kind used outdoors, with a single plastic chair, sits next to the refrigerator. Rat is poised on its haunches on top of the refrigerator, preparing to eat a ripe avocado with a spoon. Jessica and Lulu lie on one of the beds. Jessica is reading a detective novel aloud as she nurses the baby.
Adam enters. He places his hat and sunglasses on the table and prepares to sit. Notices Rat.
Adam: Wha—this is disgusting! Rat is eating our food!
Rat drops the spoon with a clatter and runs into the rafters.
Jessica looks up.
Jessica: At least it’s not drinking our coffee.
Lulu sits up abruptly. Da!
Jessica: We missed you. Do you want a sandwich? We have cheese.
Adam: Sure.
Jessica: So, is it getting finished?
Adam: No.
Jessica: Any idea when it will be finished?
Adam: Not really.
Act I, Scene 2
A room in another apartment complex in the same small town. The walls are painted an unpleasant yellowish beige. On top of a dresser a pepper grinder, a half-empty bottle of beer, and a roll of toilet paper are visible. A bed takes up much of the room. In one corner a miniature refrigerator with a small microwave bolted to the top emits a loud, variable hum.
Adam sits in a large, food-stained chair, holding a laptop computer, several pillows shoved behind his back. Jessica enters, carrying Lulu.
Jessica: What’s that smell? Do you smell something?
Adam: Yeah. It’s sewage. We are right next to the sewage treatment plant.
Jessica: Yeah. (Sets the baby down)
Lulu: Baila, baila! (dances)
Adam: So, what’d you guys do today?
Jessica: We bought some organic beans at the Mega. I was thinking we could cook in the fridge—you know, like, sprouting stuff! And I found this thing that froths milk without using electricity!
Adam: Uh, sounds good.
Jessica: How was work?
Adam: OK.
Jessica: Are they making progress?
Adam: Not really.
Lulu: Ererehehbop?
Jessica: So—how much longer?
Adam: I have no idea. (Pause, then) Should we go for tacos?
Jessica: Sure. Um. I’m pretty sick of tacos.
Adam: Well, we could get pozole.
Jessica: That’s more corn.
Adam: Yeah.
Act I, Scene 3
A taqueria. Smoke from a grill billows over three plastic tables set in the street. Across the street at the bakery a child aged about two, covered with red spots, is eating a donut.
Lulu: Acos. (Notices bakery) Num!
Jessica: No num. Let’s have meat.
Lulu (smiles): Num!
They sit. Waiter appears.
Adam: Hola, buenas noches. Tres de asada, por favor.
Jessica: Igual. Gracias. (Turns to Adam. Lulu gets down and runs toward the sidewalk. Jessica follows. Several minutes later, they return. Lulu squirms, is put down, runs away again. Jessica prepares to follow)
Adam: (sotto voce) Keep her away from that kid. He has mumps or something.
Jessica: What? (Disappears)
Adam remains at the table. He looks preoccupied.
Several minutes later, Jessica and Lulu reappear.
Lulu: Agua!
Adam: Here’s your agua.
Waiter arrives, sets down plates of tacos. Algo más?
Adam: No, gracias.
They begin to eat in silence. Sound from loudspeakers atop a traveling vegetable truck can be heard in the distance: Señoras de la casa, tenemos jitomates, veinte pesos por kilo, si, solo veinte pesos cada kilo. Aprovecha! (Sound fades away.)
Adam: Watch out. She’s getting salsa everywhere.
Jessica: Could you pass me a napkin?
Suddenly, a mariachi band appears stage left. The guitarist strums the first notes of a song and the singer steps forward. Rat appears stage right, holding a miniature pair of maracas.
(Singing)
Parece un camino laaaargo,
A veces necessitas esperar.
(Repeat)
But as time is passing
Life is passing
A-pro-ve-cha!
Oh, it might seem like a long road,
But you know what, it’s a short life—
Que agarres los cojones!
(Together) Que agarres los cojones!
Adam: I didn’t know mariachis could swear.
Jessica: Maybe they can’t. I just made all this up. Except for the part about the rat. Come on, let’s finish our tacos, buy a family-size Corona, and go watch the moon come up over the breakwater. (They smile at each other.)
Lulu: Go! Go! (Turns and waves at audience)
Exeunt.
THE END
A play in one act
Characters:
Jessica, a white woman in her late thirties, dressed in a knee-length skirt and a sleeveless black shirt with a prominent avocado smear on one shoulder. She is never seen without
Lulu, an energetic child of about a year and a half
Adam, a white man, also in his late thirties, wearing a pair of paint-stained shorts and a t-shirt. Currently the family breadwinner.
Rat, a medium-sized rodent
Waiter, a Mexican high school student with carefully styled hair
Mariachi band, enough said
Act I, Scene 1
A one-room apartment above a restaurant in a small Mexican beach town. Outside the door, laundry hangs on a line. The Beatles’ "Imagine," played at top volume, is abruptly turned off, replaced by a blast of cumbia music. Two men can be heard arguing in Spanish. The music gradually fades as light comes up on the room shared by Jessica, Adam, Lulu, and Rat.
Toys are scattered across the floor. Five beds of different sizes have been pushed up against the walls. A plastic table, of the kind used outdoors, with a single plastic chair, sits next to the refrigerator. Rat is poised on its haunches on top of the refrigerator, preparing to eat a ripe avocado with a spoon. Jessica and Lulu lie on one of the beds. Jessica is reading a detective novel aloud as she nurses the baby.
Adam enters. He places his hat and sunglasses on the table and prepares to sit. Notices Rat.
Adam: Wha—this is disgusting! Rat is eating our food!
Rat drops the spoon with a clatter and runs into the rafters.
Jessica looks up.
Jessica: At least it’s not drinking our coffee.
Lulu sits up abruptly. Da!
Jessica: We missed you. Do you want a sandwich? We have cheese.
Adam: Sure.
Jessica: So, is it getting finished?
Adam: No.
Jessica: Any idea when it will be finished?
Adam: Not really.
Act I, Scene 2
A room in another apartment complex in the same small town. The walls are painted an unpleasant yellowish beige. On top of a dresser a pepper grinder, a half-empty bottle of beer, and a roll of toilet paper are visible. A bed takes up much of the room. In one corner a miniature refrigerator with a small microwave bolted to the top emits a loud, variable hum.
Adam sits in a large, food-stained chair, holding a laptop computer, several pillows shoved behind his back. Jessica enters, carrying Lulu.
Jessica: What’s that smell? Do you smell something?
Adam: Yeah. It’s sewage. We are right next to the sewage treatment plant.
Jessica: Yeah. (Sets the baby down)
Lulu: Baila, baila! (dances)
Adam: So, what’d you guys do today?
Jessica: We bought some organic beans at the Mega. I was thinking we could cook in the fridge—you know, like, sprouting stuff! And I found this thing that froths milk without using electricity!
Adam: Uh, sounds good.
Jessica: How was work?
Adam: OK.
Jessica: Are they making progress?
Adam: Not really.
Lulu: Ererehehbop?
Jessica: So—how much longer?
Adam: I have no idea. (Pause, then) Should we go for tacos?
Jessica: Sure. Um. I’m pretty sick of tacos.
Adam: Well, we could get pozole.
Jessica: That’s more corn.
Adam: Yeah.
Act I, Scene 3
A taqueria. Smoke from a grill billows over three plastic tables set in the street. Across the street at the bakery a child aged about two, covered with red spots, is eating a donut.
Lulu: Acos. (Notices bakery) Num!
Jessica: No num. Let’s have meat.
Lulu (smiles): Num!
They sit. Waiter appears.
Adam: Hola, buenas noches. Tres de asada, por favor.
Jessica: Igual. Gracias. (Turns to Adam. Lulu gets down and runs toward the sidewalk. Jessica follows. Several minutes later, they return. Lulu squirms, is put down, runs away again. Jessica prepares to follow)
Adam: (sotto voce) Keep her away from that kid. He has mumps or something.
Jessica: What? (Disappears)
Adam remains at the table. He looks preoccupied.
Several minutes later, Jessica and Lulu reappear.
Lulu: Agua!
Adam: Here’s your agua.
Waiter arrives, sets down plates of tacos. Algo más?
Adam: No, gracias.
They begin to eat in silence. Sound from loudspeakers atop a traveling vegetable truck can be heard in the distance: Señoras de la casa, tenemos jitomates, veinte pesos por kilo, si, solo veinte pesos cada kilo. Aprovecha! (Sound fades away.)
Adam: Watch out. She’s getting salsa everywhere.
Jessica: Could you pass me a napkin?
Suddenly, a mariachi band appears stage left. The guitarist strums the first notes of a song and the singer steps forward. Rat appears stage right, holding a miniature pair of maracas.
(Singing)
Parece un camino laaaargo,
A veces necessitas esperar.
(Repeat)
But as time is passing
Life is passing
A-pro-ve-cha!
Oh, it might seem like a long road,
But you know what, it’s a short life—
Que agarres los cojones!
(Together) Que agarres los cojones!
Adam: I didn’t know mariachis could swear.
Jessica: Maybe they can’t. I just made all this up. Except for the part about the rat. Come on, let’s finish our tacos, buy a family-size Corona, and go watch the moon come up over the breakwater. (They smile at each other.)
Lulu: Go! Go! (Turns and waves at audience)
Exeunt.
THE END
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Mother/baby mission to Guadalajara
Lulu has a firm grip on her favorite accessory, the phone.Thanks to midwife extraordinaire Joni for the photos, and for opening her home in Guadalajara to us!
Friday, February 27, 2009
after witnessing Cheli and Nick's wedding in the nearby town of Valle, we look at pictures and eat jumbo shrimp(Aside: some thoughts upon returning from Cheli and Nick's wedding.
Driving with our new Italian friend Marisa [above, gray hair] is a death-defying pleasure. Gripping her beer between her knees, she shouts at another driver, “Puta madre! Tomalo en el culo, cretino!”
“‘Fuck you’ es normal,” she explains a moment later. “So I mix it up and say ‘Take it in the ass’.”
Anyway, Italian is fun. After eating the lasagne she has prepared one Saturday evening, we vow that we’ll make another Italian dinner soon. I suggest that we serve one of my favorites, pasta Caccio y pepe, which I guess I mispronounce, saying something like “Cazzo y pepe.” That would be penis with pepper.)
beach boogie
ready to roll
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Bored of just words
Camera situation to be resolved soon. Meanwhile we still look pretty much like this and are wearing the same clothes.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Bocaditos
In addition to organic frozen spinach and out-of-season pomegranates, the Mega sells something called an "Espantasuegra," which means "scare your mother-in-law." That's what it said on the sealed boxes in the toy aisle, sitting there waiting to be opened and shelved. I don't know what it is yet, but I intend to find out. Not that I want to scare my mother-in-law. Actually, I'm sure I've already done it, unintentionally, of course.
There are dogs that will call people on the phone for you. The next time I have a phone, I definitely need one of those.
There are dogs that will call people on the phone for you. The next time I have a phone, I definitely need one of those.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Vallarta vignettes
1. A sidewalk taco stand. It’s dark. Seven-thirty or so.
A girl, ten or eleven, walks up.
Girl: Tiene ceso?
Cook: Sí.
Girl: Dame uno de ceso and uno de cabeza, por favor.
And she waits, standing straight, looking ahead, holding her money against her chest in one hand. Then she goes off boldly into the future, fueled by brains and head.
2. A dog show. Early afternoon.
It’s at the library.
Adam: A dog show at the library?
Me: I guess there are, like, grounds.
I see a big sign, “Aprende a Bailar Salsa.” There are dogs everywhere, a cacophony, the announcer shouting, “Es un dahks hund. En español, una salchicha.” Then, solemnly, “Es un hembre.” Funny how you can say “female” as a masculine noun. Tallulah is applauding, running around petting dogs. Tiny dogs and dogs with oversized skulls and strange callouses.
We enter a tent containing fowl in cages. Guinea fowl with heads like knobs, a first-grader’s art project atop narrow bodies covered in feathered pointillism. Quail, pigeons, and miniature roosters. Kids are in there at eye level with them.
A woman asks me something like, Are these being judged too or are they just here?
I say something like, I have no idea.
Adam starts sneezing and Tallulah gets overexcited. Down! Down! A puppy! A puppy! she cries.
We leave and end up at Wal-Mart.
Do you have pomegranates? I ask a worker. Because they have them at the Mega this week.
Oh no, he says, shaking his head. They’re not in season.
Where did this guy come from? He needs to talk to the management about scaling back the global economy.
We board the bus and head home.
3. Near the bathroom in the yacht club is a small book exchange. Among the disintegrating paperbacks is a large leather-bound volume. The book sitting next to it is Jayne Ann Krentz’s The Family Way, or Janet Evanovich, Hard Eight, or something called Moviola, that supposedly Gore Vidal liked.
This book is The Law of Procedure, Jones’ Forms, Third Edition. It looks boring, surpassingly boring. I pick it up. The leather is soft, almost delicate. Chicago, E.B. Myers and Co., 1872, I read, lifting the cover. It’s about civil procedure in Illinois courts in the later nineteenth century, something probably no one, no student of law, no aficionado of antiquarian books, wants or needs to know anymore. It's bound in the skin of a cow brought to the Chicago stockyards from Wyoming or Nebraska, slaughtered by an immigrant with deep cuts on his hands, covered with the muck of death. Flayed maybe on a spring day when the snow was just starting to melt. It’s printed on paper made from towering pine, or fir, men pausing with their saws as the trees creak and begin to fall.
A girl, ten or eleven, walks up.
Girl: Tiene ceso?
Cook: Sí.
Girl: Dame uno de ceso and uno de cabeza, por favor.
And she waits, standing straight, looking ahead, holding her money against her chest in one hand. Then she goes off boldly into the future, fueled by brains and head.
2. A dog show. Early afternoon.
It’s at the library.
Adam: A dog show at the library?
Me: I guess there are, like, grounds.
I see a big sign, “Aprende a Bailar Salsa.” There are dogs everywhere, a cacophony, the announcer shouting, “Es un dahks hund. En español, una salchicha.” Then, solemnly, “Es un hembre.” Funny how you can say “female” as a masculine noun. Tallulah is applauding, running around petting dogs. Tiny dogs and dogs with oversized skulls and strange callouses.
We enter a tent containing fowl in cages. Guinea fowl with heads like knobs, a first-grader’s art project atop narrow bodies covered in feathered pointillism. Quail, pigeons, and miniature roosters. Kids are in there at eye level with them.
A woman asks me something like, Are these being judged too or are they just here?
I say something like, I have no idea.
Adam starts sneezing and Tallulah gets overexcited. Down! Down! A puppy! A puppy! she cries.
We leave and end up at Wal-Mart.
Do you have pomegranates? I ask a worker. Because they have them at the Mega this week.
Oh no, he says, shaking his head. They’re not in season.
Where did this guy come from? He needs to talk to the management about scaling back the global economy.
We board the bus and head home.
3. Near the bathroom in the yacht club is a small book exchange. Among the disintegrating paperbacks is a large leather-bound volume. The book sitting next to it is Jayne Ann Krentz’s The Family Way, or Janet Evanovich, Hard Eight, or something called Moviola, that supposedly Gore Vidal liked.
This book is The Law of Procedure, Jones’ Forms, Third Edition. It looks boring, surpassingly boring. I pick it up. The leather is soft, almost delicate. Chicago, E.B. Myers and Co., 1872, I read, lifting the cover. It’s about civil procedure in Illinois courts in the later nineteenth century, something probably no one, no student of law, no aficionado of antiquarian books, wants or needs to know anymore. It's bound in the skin of a cow brought to the Chicago stockyards from Wyoming or Nebraska, slaughtered by an immigrant with deep cuts on his hands, covered with the muck of death. Flayed maybe on a spring day when the snow was just starting to melt. It’s printed on paper made from towering pine, or fir, men pausing with their saws as the trees creak and begin to fall.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Laying down some facts in factual form, for anyone who's interested: We're currently in a marina, in the town of La Cruz de Huanacaxtle, Nayarit. It's new and pricey but our slip is comped. Why? Because Adam's boatbuilding skills are being appropriately valued by the owner of this marina and the head of the associated boatyard. He is "consulting on a fairly big wooden boat project" with "two guys working under me," and daily goes over to tell them what's what. This is cool! We'll have our boat hauled out and painted for free on top of the money he earns on the project. That and all the hot, or at least lukewarm, showers we can take, assuming we're not conserving water, which we usually are. Thus I was able to mark the one-month anniversary of my last hot shower with another one in the pristine bathrooms, and abscond with some poker chips and playing cards that seemed to have been donated to the yacht club lounge. I'm pretty sure Tallulah isn't going to turn out to be a child artist, but maybe she'll discover hidden talents as a child card dealer, a child gambling prodigy. Our luck seems to be turning, and at this rate, some crazy things could happen.
Cruise ships like horizontal skyscrapers, moving, logy, across the bay, leaving behind vertical hotels and timeshares rising emptily over the water, the uneven sawtooth of the mountains behind them, misty, implacable, waiting. They seem conscious of what a brief burst all this is, though they're not forever either.
But I don't have time for such ruminations, bound up these days in the insistence of the present. The urgencies of eating, peeing, running, seeing cats and dogs, imitating their sounds, moving things from place to place, noting the locations of round, rubbery objects, monitoring the relationship between water and child. Sometimes I read aloud whatever I'm reading, skipping over words like "rape" and "cigarette." Time passes.
But I don't have time for such ruminations, bound up these days in the insistence of the present. The urgencies of eating, peeing, running, seeing cats and dogs, imitating their sounds, moving things from place to place, noting the locations of round, rubbery objects, monitoring the relationship between water and child. Sometimes I read aloud whatever I'm reading, skipping over words like "rape" and "cigarette." Time passes.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Northerlies
Christmas day, La Cruz de Huanacaxtle
Christmas has gotten weirder and weirder. Now we’ve begun to collect icons: a Virgin of Guadalupe, La Guardia—a blond angel watching over children crossing a rickety bridge—an Italianate Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus with an Oración por las Familias printed on the back. Lulu, as she’s begun to call herself, bites it and says “baba, baba.” She loves pictures of other babies. We’re not feeling particularly religious, just kinda lonely.
Christmas Eve, Puerto Vallarta
Walking toward the corner where we planned to meet after a spontaneous hour of Christmas shopping, in a papeleria for streamers, a candy store for bright foil chocolates and the Telas Parisina for sequined and glittery ribbon, I passed an office set into the steep hillside, faded olive green chairs in an empty waiting room, the walls covered with portraits—a lowering doctor wearing huge square glasses holding newborn twins by their feet, faces red and swollen with birth, a woman’s white, emptied abdomen at the edge of the frame. On the other side of the room was a soft, pale Jesus and a young man holding out his arms to measure a prize dorado suspended on a hook, the glistening blue bay in the distance.
December 20, Tehuamixtle
I got sick, too sick to move for a couple of days. It must have been food poisoning. The evening of the third day we up-anchored and sailed toward Cabo Corrientes. We'd try to round the cape, then curve toward the top of Banderas Bay. That morning a wind began to blow hard from the north. We hove to and waited for it to change, tossing in a heaving, spray flying, churning factory of wind. On the second day we turned back. Fast through the swell toward Tehuamixtle again, the implacable drip of leaks in the deck. We went to a hotel. The room had four beds, all with bright red satin coverlets, and buckets of fake flowers rooted in sand. Next door we found Socorro cooking enchiladas and fishermen sitting in chairs overlooking the bay, watching kids bag oysters on the dock. She was padded, quiet and smiling, heating oil in a pan, pollo deshebrado marinating in chile sauce. “Socorro—what does it mean?” Adam asked. “I don’t know what it means,” she said thoughtfully. I think to myself, I looked that word up recently. We eat plates of enchiladas and sopes and drink agua de lima. “Whenever you are hungry, come and I will feed you,” Socorro tells us. Socorro—it means succor.
December 14, un restaurante de mariscos, Punta Perula
La dueña and her daughter waited with me at a table under the palapa. They showed me their cross-stitch. Pillowcases--a bouquet of red roses, a pair of bluebirds. Mi Amor. They brought the finished covers out from a room behind the kitchen, smelling of mildew. Contigo duermo en el cielo. “I also made one with turkeys,” the señora tells me. “Turkeys are so beautiful.” The women tell me in Spanish the colors of the yarn—tinto, verde de caña, verde de banderas—unfurling patterns stitched while waiting for customers, watching the light on the water, boats rocking in the swell. “There was a one-eyed man who used to come here,” the old woman says. “He was from pa’alla”—up there—the curve of her fingers taking in the United States. “He came for years, but I haven’t seen him in a long time. I suppose he’s never coming back.” Love, I dream with you—stitched in the blue of the sky, above an arbor of roses, a wine-red heart.
PS sorry for the lack of visual stimuli, our camera succumbed to our gritty lifestyle and is holding our photos hostage for now.
Christmas has gotten weirder and weirder. Now we’ve begun to collect icons: a Virgin of Guadalupe, La Guardia—a blond angel watching over children crossing a rickety bridge—an Italianate Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus with an Oración por las Familias printed on the back. Lulu, as she’s begun to call herself, bites it and says “baba, baba.” She loves pictures of other babies. We’re not feeling particularly religious, just kinda lonely.
Christmas Eve, Puerto Vallarta
Walking toward the corner where we planned to meet after a spontaneous hour of Christmas shopping, in a papeleria for streamers, a candy store for bright foil chocolates and the Telas Parisina for sequined and glittery ribbon, I passed an office set into the steep hillside, faded olive green chairs in an empty waiting room, the walls covered with portraits—a lowering doctor wearing huge square glasses holding newborn twins by their feet, faces red and swollen with birth, a woman’s white, emptied abdomen at the edge of the frame. On the other side of the room was a soft, pale Jesus and a young man holding out his arms to measure a prize dorado suspended on a hook, the glistening blue bay in the distance.
December 20, Tehuamixtle
I got sick, too sick to move for a couple of days. It must have been food poisoning. The evening of the third day we up-anchored and sailed toward Cabo Corrientes. We'd try to round the cape, then curve toward the top of Banderas Bay. That morning a wind began to blow hard from the north. We hove to and waited for it to change, tossing in a heaving, spray flying, churning factory of wind. On the second day we turned back. Fast through the swell toward Tehuamixtle again, the implacable drip of leaks in the deck. We went to a hotel. The room had four beds, all with bright red satin coverlets, and buckets of fake flowers rooted in sand. Next door we found Socorro cooking enchiladas and fishermen sitting in chairs overlooking the bay, watching kids bag oysters on the dock. She was padded, quiet and smiling, heating oil in a pan, pollo deshebrado marinating in chile sauce. “Socorro—what does it mean?” Adam asked. “I don’t know what it means,” she said thoughtfully. I think to myself, I looked that word up recently. We eat plates of enchiladas and sopes and drink agua de lima. “Whenever you are hungry, come and I will feed you,” Socorro tells us. Socorro—it means succor.
December 14, un restaurante de mariscos, Punta Perula
La dueña and her daughter waited with me at a table under the palapa. They showed me their cross-stitch. Pillowcases--a bouquet of red roses, a pair of bluebirds. Mi Amor. They brought the finished covers out from a room behind the kitchen, smelling of mildew. Contigo duermo en el cielo. “I also made one with turkeys,” the señora tells me. “Turkeys are so beautiful.” The women tell me in Spanish the colors of the yarn—tinto, verde de caña, verde de banderas—unfurling patterns stitched while waiting for customers, watching the light on the water, boats rocking in the swell. “There was a one-eyed man who used to come here,” the old woman says. “He was from pa’alla”—up there—the curve of her fingers taking in the United States. “He came for years, but I haven’t seen him in a long time. I suppose he’s never coming back.” Love, I dream with you—stitched in the blue of the sky, above an arbor of roses, a wine-red heart.
PS sorry for the lack of visual stimuli, our camera succumbed to our gritty lifestyle and is holding our photos hostage for now.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Invasive species
Careyes
December 9
After a full day of sailing and a night rocking on the hook, we hauled ourselves up on the beach amphibiously, ready for breakfast. Our cruising guide mentioned that the restaurant under the palapa had been founded by a Frenchwoman, conjuring images of pain au chocolat and café au lait served in bowls that fit perfectly in your cool morning hands. But at that moment it was closed. As we stood wondering, another couple walked onto the sand carrying blankets. They looked local and I strode over. The woman told me that the restaurant wouldn’t be open til lunch, but recommended the hotel across the way. While we chatted I started thinking to myself that she looked familiar. In fact, she looked exactly like Alice Walker. I didn’t remember what she’d said her name was. I didn’t even remember her telling me her name, though she must have because I remembered telling her mine. Why do I always remember saying my own name and not hearing other people’s? I went ahead and asked: what did you say your name was? Alice, she replied. Because you look exactly like Alice Walker, I said, in what I hoped was a non-invasive, relaxed kind of way. Well, she said, I am. She didn’t seem to want to get into the whole thing, and we had a nice conversation about boats and turtles and she told us that one of her names was Tallulah, which she knew to mean "basketweaver." We went and had a delicious breakfast at the hotel, and when we came back she was gone.
December 10
This afternoon the basketweaver refused to nap, preferring instead to help the groundskeeper pick alien grasses. She’s wondering what you’re doing, I said, as T grabbed a chunk of lawn and ran over to him. Oh, there is a plague, he told us, holding up a handful of leafy runners. I have to pick all these little grasses out of the lawn. In a serious tone he related that some people who'd stayed in the third casita there went out to the polo grounds, and their shoes picked up seeds that had been brought by the horses, who you know go wandering around out in the pasture god knows where. And now, he said, they might have to replace it all--this whole expanse of perfectly clipped, indistinguishable green.
December 9
After a full day of sailing and a night rocking on the hook, we hauled ourselves up on the beach amphibiously, ready for breakfast. Our cruising guide mentioned that the restaurant under the palapa had been founded by a Frenchwoman, conjuring images of pain au chocolat and café au lait served in bowls that fit perfectly in your cool morning hands. But at that moment it was closed. As we stood wondering, another couple walked onto the sand carrying blankets. They looked local and I strode over. The woman told me that the restaurant wouldn’t be open til lunch, but recommended the hotel across the way. While we chatted I started thinking to myself that she looked familiar. In fact, she looked exactly like Alice Walker. I didn’t remember what she’d said her name was. I didn’t even remember her telling me her name, though she must have because I remembered telling her mine. Why do I always remember saying my own name and not hearing other people’s? I went ahead and asked: what did you say your name was? Alice, she replied. Because you look exactly like Alice Walker, I said, in what I hoped was a non-invasive, relaxed kind of way. Well, she said, I am. She didn’t seem to want to get into the whole thing, and we had a nice conversation about boats and turtles and she told us that one of her names was Tallulah, which she knew to mean "basketweaver." We went and had a delicious breakfast at the hotel, and when we came back she was gone.
December 10
This afternoon the basketweaver refused to nap, preferring instead to help the groundskeeper pick alien grasses. She’s wondering what you’re doing, I said, as T grabbed a chunk of lawn and ran over to him. Oh, there is a plague, he told us, holding up a handful of leafy runners. I have to pick all these little grasses out of the lawn. In a serious tone he related that some people who'd stayed in the third casita there went out to the polo grounds, and their shoes picked up seeds that had been brought by the horses, who you know go wandering around out in the pasture god knows where. And now, he said, they might have to replace it all--this whole expanse of perfectly clipped, indistinguishable green.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Shaking off a brief episode of Cruisebummers, I witnessed Tallulah going about her usual activities: rowing the dinghy, watching pelicans and frigate birds diving off the stern, eating avocados, playing in the sand, swimming, becoming bilingual--poco a poco--and being adored by both parents and scores of Mexicans, who think it is so totally cool that she's one of them. So, for anyone--mom!--who is worried about the dangers of our sailing with a baby, let me say that any dangers are nothing compared to the IQ points she's gaining. Yes, every day is another opportunity for her to fall overboard, but equally is it an opportunity for her to learn not to. Life is chock full of child-centered goodness these days. Whew. I'm exhausted.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
We're thinking of sailing soon, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. The ladies who make tortas say, Ay, Luna! Stay with us. Someone behind me in line at the grocery store tries to teach her a new word: Coco. Coco. Coco. Coco. The next day, baby says Coco. Adios! She waves and wanders off. Bye-bye! Wait, we say, as Adam's mom and stepdad fly on to Colorado. Wait. What are we doing here? Where are we going?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
What does Tallulah think?
A late connection out of Tucson and we missed our flight from LA to Guadalajara. At the Mexicana desk, we stood before a harried woman in blue eyeshadow, our last resort. Ay! She muttered, rushing away. The baby as prop. Patient gringo. She found us an Aeromexico red-eye that night. Milagro. We rented a car in the urban dawn and got lost only once, driving briskly, sleep-deprived, into the part of the city that they call something like El Bosque. We’ve misplaced the map again. Thank you, Joni, for hosting us--Guadalajara feels like home.
The ETN Lounge at the Guadalajara bus station, an older lady comes in dressed like she remembers the old days of travel. Some crazy rhinestone glasses and pointy black heels and matching jean outfit. Her zipper's down.
We’re discovering the Barra lagoon has a force of gravity all its own. Twice now we never thought we’d be back. The chicken man says, Welcome! It’s good to see you again! Me da gusto.
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