Helpless

This holiday season, most of our days are spent in ‘meetings’.  Long, boring meetings.  Meetings that numb your mind as well as your butt, and you walk out a brand new zombie; your day gone, nothing accomplished and better yet, have yet to have done your grocery shopping.  The prospect of returning home without an enticing dinner is less than appealing.

Today is no different.  Christmas is a few days away and there is plenty of food to buy, as well as a visit from my brother coming in for the holidays.  Yet, in spite of all we have on our ‘to do’ list, there is that obtrusive ‘meeting’ interrupting yet another beautiful day. 

We are on the street going opposite of the way we should be.  I see the guy we are meeting sitting out side of a coffee shop.  I slow down and yell to him, “Hey man.  Can we park there?”  He jumps up and sets his coffee down, and while nodding an affirmative, he flags us on over and moves a cement brick so we could have a place to fit in.  We do a u-turn and head back to where we just were…but on the opposite side of the median.  I have become easily classifiable as semi-pro with parallel parking.  I pull up past our spot, and start to work my charm.

As soon as I back in, I notice something splash outside the passenger side window.  I look, and I catch a glimpse of a guy falling.  He is almost in tact with the pavement.  His water bottle has flown ahead, and his bag is in mid air.  I yell to Tonya to look, “What is happening!”  I can’t hear what is happening, but I see it.  The guy falls on his side; his head slapping the concrete after his shoulders go down first.  His arm follows suit, slapping down over his head.  “Man, that guy just ate it…” I am uttering as I turn the car off.  I see his feet start moving.  The only thing I can think of is get this guy help.  I see what is happening now, he’s having a convulsion.  “Oh no!” Tonya says concerned, “he’s an epileptic” and she is already out of the car.  I get out quickly, taking note of the oncoming traffic so I don’t get hit in my haste to get to the guy.

As I round the front of the car, a small group has gathered.  The chef from the place I had been helping out is down beside the guy, trying to comfort him.  There is a small scene of chaos.  I go up to my friend and tell him to call an ambulance.  I hate seeing this.  I saw the guy hit the pavement hard.  He is sprawled out on the pavement, and he’s convulsing, with his head about to hit the wall.  His duffle bag is strewn beside him and a puddle of water growing from the water pouring out of his bottle.

The sight of this un-nerves me terribly.  I feel so helpless.  I have no idea of how to ask what is going on, or how to ask if help is on the way.  I pace back and forth with my eyes starting to water.  I feel really, really small and inept.  The others are talking to one another.  A girl working in the coffee shop runs and gets a few towels.  I ask my friend to call an ambulance again.  He is a bit skeptical, and says to wait a few minutes until all of this subsides.

I stand and watch the twitching body come to stillness.  He lays there motionless.  I look down and notice a plastic bag full of boxes of medicine.  He has a tag around his neck.  My friend says that it is like a medical alert tag.  It says he is an epileptic.  The chef is rubbing his arm, talking quietly to him.  His eyes twitch and he slowly tries to open them.  From my angle, I can see he is trying to pull his eyes forward, as they have been rolled deep back into his head.  He lies there, blinking, having no idea what is going on.

“He’s not going to be able to say much at first.  Seriously, please get help” I ask my friend.  He is a skeptic, and says he thinks it is all a scam. “I’ve seen it before, I think he’s bluffing”.  “No man, I don’t think so.  You don’t slam your head down that hard onto the concrete is you are pulling a stunt” I counter his remark.

The fallen guy starts talking.  The chef is speaking very calmly to him, rubbing his arm, and then places a hand under his head.  The guy blinks repeatedly, and then finally opens his eyes.  He is obviously trying to tune back in to reality.  He gives his name and asks for help.  The chef gives him a towel and helps to prop him up against the wall.  The guy moves his arm, as if he is trying to get some feeling back into it.  He looks around at the small group who has been witnessing the event.  He mutters a few more things, and starts rubbing his head.  He asks for help, and asks where he is.  He does so as he starts crying.  The chef bends over and reads his tag.  He’s lost and has no idea where he is.  The chef asks his name.  He looks at the chef with tears rolling down his face and tells him.  He is rubbing his head and then his cheek, on the side of his head that hit the concrete.  His repositions himself and pulls out a business card.  He asks for someone to call the number written on the back of the card, that this person will come and help him.

Tonya later informs me that part of what was happening, was the guy said he was doing construction work for the guy on the card.  He had a fit and nearly fell off a second story.  The foreman let him go, and said he should find other work or go home.  This is the man he is asking for us to call.

I am not easily fooled, and try to be constantly aware of scams and beggars.  However, I am very moved by what I just saw, and I do not think it was a scam.  I tell my friend, he took too hard a fall to be a set up.  He is visibly shaken and by the discoloring on the left side of his face, you can tell he truly hit with good force.  The chef stands up and comes over and asks for everyone to pitch in for bus fare, to get this guy on his way.  He verified that according to his tag, he is not from here.  The poor guy is confused when he finds out what neighborhood he is in, and starts to cry more. 

I am not from here.  I don’t understand what everyone is saying.  I just know that I am looking at a guy propped up against a wall.  His belongings strewn on the sidewalk, and a plastic bag full of medicine lying beside his duffle bag.  I watch the chef go to him and talk, and help him get comfortable and pull his belongings together.  I don’t fall for the poor dirty beggar with hands out stretched.  However, seeing this guy take a fall, his head hitting the concrete with full on dead weight, and seeing him salivate while convulsing and then coming to, looking with that glassy empty stare slowly coming back into consciousness…I cannot feel the same as my friend.  I am blinking to clear my eyes of the welling tears.  He’s taken the fall, yet I feel so helpless.  I felt so small and useless.  The sight of this really struck me, re-iterating the frailty of life.  In a brazen flash I was so very aware of the simple blessings that we take for granted, like being able to walk home without any problems.  I can not imagine going through what he just did, having your world turn upside down…the lights go off and you awake in a completely different world.  Your head throbbing and arms aching.  Everyone is a stranger.  Home seems like a very, very long way away. I am a stranger in a strange land, and I am also just one more stranger in the eyes of the dazed man. I was the helpless stranger.

Helping Around The House

The strangest things can happen while at home, especially if the home is a public place.  Recently, I have been helping a friend in need with his ‘home’, which doubles as a type of speakeasy/restaurant.  Though not too involved, the times I have been there it has been an experience.  Typical of the way things are here, there is an adventure or a story at almost every corner.

The house is a beautiful old mansion, in a hip part of town.  It has three stories plus a roof terrace.  You enter form the street up a huge marble stairway and into a somewhat shadow of the elegance that once was so vibrant here.  A mirrored wall and a glorious, elaborate winding stairway meet you as you enter the main room.  There is an intimate dining room to one side, and a lush living room on the other side.  Ornate molding lines the walls and adorns the ceilings.   Up the winding stairway, you reach three other quirky rooms and if you head to the back hallway, a tightly winding iron staircase going up and out onto the terrace.  It is like a giant playhouse, with endless possibilities and the constant allure of the unknown to those who visit.

Oh-the kitchen is accessed through a long hallway.  There has been an obvious decay of TLC for this section.  In the cold, dark hallway, a simple blue neon cross hangs high overhead on the smoke stained walls.  However, this is where one of the most charismatic characters resides.  The chef.  He’s an amicable guy, typical of what you may know of chefs or read about them.  He scuttles around in his Crocs and chef pants.  I suppose it is the typical life of chefs, which taint them all with a head of grey hair, his being close cropped and neatly kept.  He’s always got big glowing eyes and a smile.  Just being in his kitchen is such a nice feeling.  In the states, it would not be out of place to have a busload of Mexicans working.  Here, it is a bit different.  They have outsourced.  Yes, there are some Mexicans in the kitchen, but the one steering the ship is Venezuelan.  One of the first things he said to me when he told me he was from Caracas was joke about Hugo Chavez.  I do not know if it is part of the joke r not, but there are some clippings of photos hanging on the main counter, shots of Chavez shaking hands with Ahmedenijad.  I have no idea what they say, because they are in Spanish, but both the dictators seem quite happy shaking hands and hanging form the counter of the smiling Venezuelan.  When he turns his head, you can see the tattoo on his neck, as well as the ones on his arm.  I have yet to see it myself, but the others who work here say the chef downs a bottle of rum every night. I have, however, seen him steal beers out of the fridge and he often walks up behind me, taps me on the shoulder, and politely asks if I will tip some special liquids into his glass.  He smiles and then slinks away, back down the long hallway to the kitchen.

Every night when the staff arrives, he starts to prep the evening menu with the help of a short, chubby Mexican lady, who is also always smiling.  These two are aided by a single lady who washes everything.  She is extremely friendly and her warmth radiates through the whole kitchen.  As the prepping is underway for the night’s menu, the chef prepares a set of several dishes for the staff.  Usually there are a few giant skillets placed on the table, full of hearty food.  A series of plates are placed in a circle around the hot food, and we all sit down and dig in to whatever he’s made.  I must say, he made a marvelous and simple vegetable soup.  I loved it!  He also whipped up some local fare from his homeland, small potato cakes that you slice and fill with other yummy stuff.

It was on the very night when he made the lovely soup that I was amazed at just how much Mexicans share.  It is a nice thing to do, to sit all in a group and eat.  Everyone one chatting and laughing.  I had about three servings of the soup.  The girl I sat next to had a few servings herself.  For whatever reason though, I noticed that as she re-served herself, she would push the carrots to the side of her bowl.  She dipped her tortillas in and slurped her way through her bowls of soup, getting every last drop (yes, it was that good!)  I thought it fun to watch, but then she did something truly amazing.  As she cleaned her bowl of all the soup, she then took each carrot, which had been pushed aside, and carefully lifted them out of her bowl and put them all back into the giant pot, so that we all could re-savor them.  I am all for sharing the Mexican way, but I am not too crazy about this.  Thankfully, I had already had my three helpings and would leave those carrots to be planted in someone else’s’ dish.  Them, never being the wiser that they had previously been used.

I immediately took to the main waiter, a little man, typical of what you’d expect.  Tiny and dark, with close cropped, gelled back hair.  He looks quite sharp in his white shirt and bowtie and black apron.  He doesn’t really speak English, but he does enough to show me the ropes.  I am getting a crash course in learning Spanish now, especially in restaurant and bar terminology.  He explains all the terms for the drinks they have.  Of course, it is all too much at first, and no sooner has he told me that I have forgotten.  It is a lot to take in, sang names for all these drinks.  A few nights into the friendship, he stops me in the hallway and points to a bag in the refrigerator.  He opens the plastic bag and points to a six-pack of Leon beer.  He raises his hand up, with his thumb out, like he is drinking.  He offers me one.  I have seen this beer but never tried it.  I happily oblige.  This simple action has bonded us for good.  Now, he sees bringing in the Leon as a special treat for he and I.  For myself, I am happy to have struck up a new pal…even if he is only about 3 feet tall. He likes me and I like him.  Each time I go into the place I look forward to seeing him.  I think he was quite proud one night when we sat at the round table back in the kitchen.  I needed to prepare my cheat sheet for the drinks they ask for.  I asked in him very broken and mispronounced Spanish about each drink I needed help with.  I went over all the ingredients in Spanish and corrected me where needed.  After we finished, he stood up and patted me on the back and made a loud declaration in Spanish of how good I did (at least I think that is what he said), and it elicited smiles and cheers form all who were there.  Seeing him smile made me smile.  I started to feel like I was fitting in, I was becoming a Mexican.

Aside from gossip about staff, you get gossip about customers too.  One figure that struck me was the little scruffy guy who came in late one night, with the sole inserts form his shoes hanging out of his coat pocket.  It was as if he drifted in, floating on air, and his smile pushing his whiskers all up around his face and his fat nose poking through the middle.  He likes a drink, and he likes it late.  He sways from side to side and then makes himself at home with a group of 8 ladies.  Before you know it, he is dancing with a few, twirling them around the room, causing his shoe soles to fall out of his jacket onto the floor, making for some interesting sidesteps to avoid tripping over.  As odd as he is, I was curious about the one regular who pops in to have some booze and eats.  I was on the look out for the British composer, Michael Nyman.  Yes, he who became popular due to the soundtracks he did with the director Peter Greenaway.

So I finally met him, although I had no idea that I had.  We were slammed.  There was a big celebration going on and everyone was there.  The chef had prepared some lovely food and a giant table was laid with food for all the visitors to enjoy.  Everywhere else people were standing and chatting.  I was bombarded and doing my best to understand Spanish above the loud talking and music playing.  In a flurry of chaos, I see small bald man with fluffy white hair stuck to the side of his head like shredded cotton balls.  I had the feeling he had been overlooked, so I make a point to tend to him.   He is leaning against the pathetic excuse for a bar.  I lean towards him and he says “Agua con gaz”.  I pull back and think for a second. I am sure I heard what he said, but not sure it was what I think he is trying to say.  I lean back in to get his order again.  He clears his throat and starts again, a bit louder, “Agua con gaz” I pull back again.  He’s looking at me with a bit of frustration.  I have a feeling that my languages are getting crossed, so I try again.  I lean in and say, “I am sorry, but it is hard to hear you clearly above this noise.  What was it again?”

In frustration, he blurts out, “Mineral water.  A bubbly mineral water with ice, please!” Ahhh, ok. I immediately pour him his drink and hand it to him.  I lean to him again and say, “I am sorry.  I have never heard anyone ask for water with ‘gaz’ in Spanish.  ‘Avec gaz’ I would get, but not in Spanish.  I thought that is what you said, but I was not sure”

He looks at me though the bold round rims of his big glasses. “Really?  You have never heard anyone ask for ‘gaz’ in Spanish?”  I shake my head and give him a simple reply, “No”

“I would not have guessed to say it in French here.  But if you know it in French, why not in Spanish.  French….Spanish, they are the same anyway.  Right?”  He smiles and says thank you, and turns to disappear into the crowd.  A few moments later the owner walks by.  “Do you know who that old man was you were talking to?”  Of course I have no idea.  He just seemed like some old guy with big glasses who likes a party, and gets his languages mixed up. “That was Nyman,” he says; as he walks on to do his business.

That was it.  I had served up Michael Nyman mineral water and didn’t even know it.  I had no idea what I expected Michael Nyman to look like, but I do know what he sounds like.  Perhaps…I was expecting something a bit more grand, but still an older guy.  The glasses made perfect sense, as does the baldhead and fluffy white hair.  He returns a few more times, but things are so busy that my little Mexican friend is covering that side of our ‘podium’.

Later on, amidst all the chaos I find myself sitting down in the middle of the room with the owners.  It turns out, Nyman is pals with them. “He comes here often.  He has a home around the corner,” he says. “We mostly talk about our hearts, and not so much about music.  I had a heart attack 10 years ago, and he had one a few years ago.  So, we talk about our health and hearts” he says shrugging his shoulders.  In a few moments, Michael comes and sits in the chair next to me.  He is talking to big, burly Mexican guy, who has a deep gravelly voice.  “Whose that?” I ask my pal.  “Oh, that is a famous Mexican Violinist.  His father was a famous composer and quite well known in the States,” he says.  The two are going at it, with the violinist doing most of the talking.  Michael is sitting, somewhat swaying from side to side.  He has a drink in each hand.  I notice that there is a girl standing behind the violinist.  I look up and she smiles at me, the glances down and the two in conversation.  At some point Michael realizes that he’s holding the two drinks, and looks up over his glasses to the younger girl.  He smiles and hands her a drink.  He says a few words, and she walks away to start chatting with another girl.

I keep wondering if it is just the lighting, or why do Michael’s ears look so dark.  I can’t decide if they are truly that hairy, or if it is a deep black shadow cast from his ear canal.  I wonder if that is a common trait among composers, to have hairy ear holes.  It goes with the fuzzy white hair do though.  He sits and chats with the gruff voiced violin player, and I sip my tequila and watch them.  He is wearing slip on ankle boots, Like Beatle boots with striped socks.  Nice socks, at least form my angle.  As he leans in to talk closer with his buddy, I notice his blazer.  It is worn thin, and the elbows are ripped.  I see the lining in several spots of the elbows.  I feel odd noticing the poor choice of clothing he is wearing.  Maybe it is comfy, or his favorite jacket.  Then I think, that maybe this is just part of his wardrobe he keeps here in Mexico.  I think of the music he composes and come to terms that the music does not suit worn elbows in jackets though.

We decide it is time to go.  At the same time, Michael and his buddy decide enough is enough.  As I get my stuff, I see him saying goodbye to my friend.  He wobbles through the crowd and exchanges a few more farewells to other partygoers.  As we walk outside, I am told that he likes to come and mingle with younger people.  It is pointed out that he is not some lecherous old feller staring and young girls, he simply comes to drink and talk.  He likes to see what is happening with ‘the kids’.  By being aware of what is happening in other aspects of music, he is more in tune with his own compositions.  This all makes perfect sense.  We start to pull away from the curb, and as we are driving off, I see something white and fluffy floating across and intersection.  It is him.  The question is asked if we should give him a lift. “No, when he is here he likes to walk.  It is a nice 10 minute walk to his place” So, as we drive by, I see Nyman starting his way home into the night.  That is him, the guy who makes that great music.  I hope he doesn’t get mugged.

A few blocks away, as Michael disappears, I see a group of policemen standing on the corner.  There must be at least eight of them.  There is a food cart with a light clamped to it.  As we draw even with them, I see this is what Mexican cops do.  They gather at taco carts late at night.  I suppose it is better than eating loads of donuts.

Something Smells

A few years ago while in Chicago, we were walking through a very Mexican neighborhood in Chicago.  Tonya made a comment about how strange it was that this particular neighborhood smelled like Mexico.  To me, it smelled like an old rotting grease trap and trash, and maybe a whiff of some sort of fried food wafting through the air.

Fast forward to the here and now.  While sitting at a traffic light my eye caught a family waiting to cross the street.  There was the mom and dad, a small child and two young kids.   We were sitting still, but they had the light to go ahead and walk.  I noticed the mom right away.  She was a bit pudgy, and started off across the street with a bit of a waddle.  She was wearing an ill fitting yellow t-shirt; this is what really caught my eye.  As she was even with me, she turned slightly to hurry up the two young children.  Stretched across the dirty yellow t-shirt was a slogan.  A slogan which any woman in her right mind should not be wearing.  It big black letters, the letters warped and twisted across her belly: SOMETHING SMELLS.  I laughed out loud and immediately went to slap Tonya on the arm to see what I have just seen.  We both laughed as the woman sped her waddle up and made it to the other side safely.  This is significant for a few reasons; one is, you can always be guaranteed a laugh when people wear shirts that they have no idea what they actually say, and secondly; because the shirt tells a tale.  The woman may smell, but more importantly, this city does!

It is not impossible to recall the smelly neighborhood in Chicago.  It did smell like Mexico City. Stinky.  I had heard fables of these ‘brown clouds’ of pollution which helped stink up the place, but I had no idea just how smelly it is.

This whole thing baffles me.  As a rule, Mexicans are clean people.  They are always cleaning; their cars, their sidewalks, their homes. Laundry is seen hung everywhere.  One would think with all these people cleaning and keeping things clean, that this place would smell nice and fresh. No.  In actuality, you just get the sickening smell of Fabuloso trying to drown out the smell of …Mexico City. 

Everywhere you go, you will get pummeled with an overwhelming stench.  At times, especially downtown, this stench will almost literally slap you in the face.  I am not exaggerating when I say that sometimes these unexpected nose fulls of stench literally have taken my breath away.  Yes, I am one of those nerds who will actually hold his breath while traversing through parts of the city.

Don’t get me wrong!  Walking down any street in any neighborhood, you are sure to catch a whiff of some lovely and enticing food being cooked up on the street or right next to it.  This is always a pleasant welcome, and often times, gets the saliva going.  It is hard resisting the temptation to scarf up so much of this stuff.  You may be lucky, and stroll past a flower market.  This can provide a brief respite of some natural freshness.

However, I am going on record to say that the smell of Mexico City can be divided and distinguished into almost three perfect parts; exhaust, garbage and Fabuloso.  Interestingly enough, I have not really noticed the ‘black booger’ syndrome one easily gets while riding subways…perhaps because my travel underground is limited.  Sitting in traffic one day inhaling exhaust and feeling our brain cells rot away, Tonya and I discussed how living here breathing in this endless supply of filth, will surely land one with any number of respiratory problems.  It is inevitable.  Funny to note, that supposedly Mexico City’s pollution has gotten better.  It is now Monterrey who has picked up the baton as leader in suffocating pollution.

It never really works when one smell battles another to become victor.  It is always a bit nauseating to get a nose full of filth and immediately then get an overdose of overly sweet chemicals, supposedly meant to cleanse and freshen the air.  This just adds to the putrid mélange of smells which can make your head spin…of find you heaving and gasping for fresh air.

Tonya grew up here, for her this is home.  Granted, she has spent more time in the States than here, but she has spent enough time here to know the smell of home.  Heck, she even recognized it when in Chicago!  It never fails to make me laugh and at the same time shake my head with disbelief when randomly, while in the city, Tonya will smell something quite stinky and strong and pose the question, “Did you just fart?”

My replies are always the same. “No” then I cannot help but add some smart-alec remark like “That is the lovely smell of home honey” or “Nope, that is Mexico baby!”  I know it is simple thing, but I am amazed at how one can be raised in this stench and still get a nose full of Lord knows what and ask if I farted.  How can you distinguish the two?  How can a smoker even think they can tell the difference between the fine scent of a rotting grease trap topped with decay and the smell of a ‘bottom burp’?  Surely you can tell the difference between my butt and the smell of home-or, maybe not.

Like the fat lady’s shirt said, ‘SOMETHING SMELLS’, it’s not just her, it is this city.

I Own A Macbook, Therefore I Am

[*Please note, the following piece is truly about how one line can sum up a whole evening.  The subtleties and nuances are often lost in writing.  The  full variety of conversations and evenings were actually quiet entertaining]

Education knows no boundaries.  A smart and educated person is the same the world over, right?  All you need is a Macbook and off to art school. At least, this is a lesson I have learned whilst living abroad.  The smartest are the elitists.

A few examples of yours truly attending the school of hard knocks;

One scholar schooled me thus; America is bad.  Basically, it is the cause of all the ills that plague the globe.  This thought in itself is not that new, especially among lefty-types.  However, I do not fall for this trap, for I do not believe like most Arabs, we are not the world’s ‘great Satan’.  However, being as that it is dinnertime and being a gracious host, I listen and spar a bit.  The lecture continues on, that how can one be proud to be from America, when America used black people as slaves and over-ran the indigenous people and imposed their imperialist ways on the downtrodden.  It is shameful, and no one in his or her right mind would be proud of a country like this.  The smart person lecturing me so is very keen on Latin culture, and is spending time in Mexico, soaking up everything possible.  It is a very vibrant and wonderful thing, according to said person.

After being browbeat and scolded (typical of ignorant people like myself) I make my case.  I pose a simple question.  If those are the traits that make America so shameful, what about other countries?  It is not unique to America.

“Like who?”  Asks the brainiac.

Spain.  The very country, which did so much to form this lovely country (Mexico).  He looks at me like I am crazy…and I am sure I do look crazy.  Yes.  You do know that the Spanish brought blacks as slaves to Mexico, to build their new empire…right?  Now I know I am not the sharpest dude in town, but wasn’t it the Spanish who came to this place and basically wiped out a whole civilization…namely, the Aztecs?

The smart guy is quiet.  He admits this short oversight.  Change the subject.

Another typical trait I have come to see in blazing color is the plight of the workingman.  Socialist views are the best option.  The people have the power, and all things should be spread among the people equally.  This is another fault of America, is that people should not be allowed to be rich and make what they want.  Everyone is entitled to a home, and the luxuries that those who work hard for their leisure enjoy.  This is fair, right?  I have even been told this by our great leader on anyone of his countless television appearances.  The wise and cultured art student is re-enforcing this mode of thought.  This is why other countries are far superior, because they abide by a socialist view.  It is horrible that corporations stomp on the workers, that bankers get loads of money, that you do anything in private enterprise or agree with Capitalism.

The people are the power…unless they choose to speak.  When the workingman speaks up, shield your ears.  A perfect example was made by this learned student when he goes on about how important each and every individual’s rights are and their voices must be heard and accounted for.  In the same breath, a comment is made; “Oh my God, as long as they don’t vote in the mid-term elections.  Keep the stupid people out of the voting booths, that is the last thing we need.”

I was confused by this.  Like an idiot, I open my mouth and prove my ignorance.  “Didn’t you just say everyone is equal?  That the peoples’ voices must be heard?  Do the true working people in the mid-West, the farmers, the southern hicks, the simple people…do these not count?”  I know, a silly observation. “Is it only those who attend the right schools and live in the right cities that actually have a right to be heard?”  I loosed my tongue in a flurry of ignorance and made a simple point that a Macbook and an enrollment into an art school doesn’t automatically qualify one for ‘educated’ or cultured.  In fact, I felt it is the opposite.  If you think everyone has a voice, then the buck-toothed inbred driving a tractor in Nebraska has just as much say as the kid with the parents paying for his newly discovered drug craze while attending hip art school of Chicago. Right?

No.  I am wrong.  I do not own a Macbook and I have not attended the right schools.  I am a simpleton, and one who should be silenced…as proven in the next scene.

Saying the ‘N’ word is wrong.  It is a terrible offense and it only shows your ignorance by using it.  It shows you have no culture and are careless about other peoples’ feelings.  Another art student tells me that this word should be barred from usage, even in your own home.  It is backward and hurtful.  I held my simple tongue and did not pose the question of “Which is worse, saying it or thinking it?”  Of course, as mentioned before and by other artsy types, how could anyone who has not lived in NYC or LA even know about culture?  The rest of the populace is simple and stupid.  Never mind the draconian rule of banning words from usage in your own home, among consenting adults.  1984, anyone?

I ask why the word is bad.  I do not settle for a simple ‘it just is’.  I agree that it has been ‘perverted’, but ask if they can at least see how this word may have gotten to where it is now?  Can you follow the lines?  A country where many blacks come from, Nigeria.  Do you see the similarity?  Can you see from this simple example of how someone can mangle this?  It is still bad.  Negro.  You do know this word is used daily…like even here in Mexico?   A pair of questioning, yet skeptical eyes look at me. Yes, it is used daily.  It means ‘black’, you do know that right?  Can you see how the ‘N’ word can get mangled yet?  Can you see its lineage?

“Do they really use that word for black here?”

The answer is simple.  Still, educated and cultured people must maintain that the consensus says ‘word is bad’ so ‘word is bad’ (never mind keeping schtum and screaming it in your mind).  I understand, there is a huge chasm between the simple and the smart.  Rather than pursue the idea of free speech and being ‘racist’ in word or deed, I accept that only a simple, lowly man would defend the right to speak freely and openly in his own home, in private, on whatever subject he chooses.  I hang my head in shame.

“You know…I just realized the other day that when I throw my cigarettes out the window that that is actually littering” says the victor as they muse on a newly learned lesson.

Do I need to tell you what the look on my face was?  I need not remind the cultured one that in an earlier conversation about race that if you did not like blacks you are racist.  However, said cultured one said they could not stand Chinese people-but that is not racist.  Yes, the schools of today have taught well, race is between black and white; hatred among other races and cultures gets the green flag.

I am convinced, that the key to knowledge and forward thinking comes in the guise of a white plastic 15” casing, with a glowing apple on the lid.  If genius is pursued, one must try to attain the metallic variety, in a larger scale, containing even more knowledge.

In closing, I admit that you learn from everyone.  Differing views and opinions help us all to gain insight, even if it is gleaned in a wrong city…or God forbid, something more provincial like a town!  Sometimes, even an uncalled for smart-alec remark from a simpleton like me can teach a well-learned champion of ‘diversity’ a thing or two.  As a quick jest to one who chooses to rollick with their own gender is made, “Ain’t that right, Stonewall?”

Empty, questioning eyes look as if I uttered Mandarin or something. “What is Stonewall?”

Seriously.

(Any funding to help me to obtain a Macbook would be greatly appreciated!)

Driving: A Primer

I can say with no hesitation whatsoever that Mexicans are reckless, crazy drivers.  They may not be the worse on earth, but I am sure they are within the top 5.  To those back home, don’t feel bad when you see someone driving crazy and you say something about it being a Mexican or Vietnamese.  Chances are, you are 50% right. There are truths to stereotypes…and the one that Mexicans are crazy drivers is very true.

Get one of these when driving here!

I had an odd experience on Sunday, while driving Alexandra to the airport.  Traffic was pretty much non-existent, and we are breezing along just fine.  As we come down off an over pass I am amazed that the usual pile up point wasn’t happening today.  We are coming up on the Viaducto (main thoroughfare, running east to west through Mexico City) and I am thinking we are going to make record time on the airport trek.  As we starting to approach going under the last overpass before the Viaducto, there is a pile of cars and I see flashing lights.  I catch a glimpse of a cop, and a motorcycle.  I do not want to look to close, for I fear the worse.

A policeman can be easily seen now, and he is funneling the traffic into one lane, and motioning for people to slow down.  We get into the far left lane, in the newly created single-file line, and start to really slow down.   As we inch closer, we see three cops, a police car parked sideways and a motorcycle.  Luckily, it was not what it seemed.  It is all cops and there is no accident.  This makes me question then, just what is happening if there is no accident.

Just as we are even with the cops, the car in front of us is let through, and the motorcycle cop stands in front of me with his hand up.  He keeps it stationary, meaning for me to halt. I do.  Then he points to the ground, and motions to pull up to where he is.  I inch up until he raises his hand again.  His eyes are hidden behind the mirror aviator shades, Eric Estrada would be proud.  He looks like the typical tough motorcycle cop.  As we are in place, the two other cops come from around their car.  I find this odd.  They walk in front of us, and turn their backs.  I am a bit unsettled.  What are they doing? 

This is it. How convenient.  We are sitting under an overpass, out of sight of most of the passers by.  The cops turn their back…this is the hi-jack.  This is an ambush. My eyes dart all around.  I am waiting for the fun to begin. Then I hear a car honk.  It is the car right behind me, a cab.  He is laying into his horn.  Then a few more cars.  I look in my rearview mirror and I can now see a long line of cars behind me, and the backs of three cops in front of me.  If the cops don’t hi-jack me, I am afraid one of these irate drivers will.  All of a sudden, all three cops turn to face the traffic.  The adjust themselves to get a good look at the line of traffic they have created, and then they look back, to the stretch of empty highway.

Sitting under the concrete overpass acts as an echo chamber for the irate cars behind me.  They lean into their horns and the sound just bounces everywhere, shredding my eardrums and melting my brain in the process.  This makes me a bit crazy.  I start mouthing off about just how dumb these people are.  They see cops blocking the road, lights flashing; no one is budging yet they have seen it as maestros instructing them to start a symphony of honking.  The upside of all the sound is that it was drowning out all the expletives blurting out of my mouth.  The motorcycle cop who stood in front of me displaying the empty mirrored glare of his soulless glasses starts to get irritated.  He motions for the idiot behind me to lay off.  He honks more, and then sits on the horn.   The motorcycle cop hails one of the others to come take his place, and he immediately marches to the cab and sets the guy straight, then he starts to the car behind him.  For now, at least, the immediate cars behind me have ceased their honking.  I see him in my mirror waving his hands to tell the others to stop.  Slowly, they trail off, with only a few wise guys and idiots still sounding off as if they will be the guy who makes it all change.

As the cop with the mirrored eyes walks back to pole position, he stops on the passenger side and leans in, “Sorry for the delay.  There is a convoy.  We have to stop you for security reasons” All of this was in Spanish, of course.  I did, however, understand the word ‘convoy’.  Tonya and I both asked one another, “Who do you think it is?”

After a few more minutes, the cop gets word on the walkie-talkie that all is clear.  He motions to the other cops, and then he points at me.  He motions me to go ahead, then waves as we pass.  I bullet into the empty highway and get as far ahead of the maddened crowd as I possibly could.  As we fly down the Viaducto I see other cops keeping cars at bay still, on the feeder.  I do not see any signs of anyone important or a motorcade ahead, but I am making good time.  I was not hi-jacked after all.  I was feeling ok.

This did make me want to comment though, on just how crazy Mexicans are...especially their driving.  Every single person who has come to visit has commented on these stunts shortly after seeing for them selves.  They can all testify.  In this town, it is dog eat dog.  You drive aggressive or you get nowhere.  Me?  I am a terror now, so beware.  I drive like a crazed Mexican at times, shouting at the other Mexicans.  I am not proud-but at least I get to where I need to go.

What is the point of red lights here, many a person has asked.  Everyday I am amazed at this phenomenon.  People go when they want, red light or no red light.  It matters not if you are a bus driver and have a bus over-packed with passengers.  If you feel inclined to go, you go.  Lord have mercy on pedestrians, as there is no mercy shown.

Turn lanes…Que?  What are those?  Who designed the streets here anyway?  You go to the far right lane of a three-lane street, only to cut back across all three lanes to go left.  You best be on guard, because it is not uncommon for the opposite to take effect either.  The guy all the way in the left lane…don’t be surprised if all of a sudden he decides he wants to turn right, and cuts across all lanes and in front of you to make his way to where he is going.

You rarely see stop signs here.  Pretty much only in parking lots.  It is anyone’s guess who makes the first move at any given intersection.  Word of advice; say your prayers and hold your breath.

It is painfully obvious that those on the road here do not have to sit through their driver’s education classes.  They have no clue what to do or how to behave when a siren is heard and flashing lights are seen.  I promise you, this is no lie.  I have seen on more than a single occasion, when an ambulance is pleading, trying to make its way through the packed streets and no one gives a damn.  Get behind me chump!  They do not budge.  I recoiled in fear the first time I saw this.  I could not help but wonder about the poor soul inside who was at the mercy of these stalwart, stubborn Mexicans.  It matters not if you are on your deathbed; they are going to get what they want first.

A word of advice told to me by Mexicans; if you are told to stop by a cop on foot, keep going! True.  I have seen others try this and tough cops jump in the way so you cannot move.  The very first time I was stopped by a cop here (read the earlier blog about the pyramids) the first thing the officer asked was, “Why did you stop?”

We have heard countless stories of the lawless Wild West.  Well, it is alive and well here.  It is as if hell has opened it giant garage doors and Satan blinded his legions of demons and handed them all sets of keys and told them they all have access to the latest version of BMWs available.  “Go get ‘em tiger!” he tells his crazed lunatics and sets them ablaze.  He laughs at his practical joke on human kind.

One wonders about the simple fact; if they do not obey laws here; it is no wonder why they don’t in the USA.  Yes, that car in front of you swerving to and fro…who do you think it is?  That guy who just ran the red light?  I will give you a hint, he likes it picante.  No my friends, worry not about political correctness.  Embrace your closed-mindedness.  Plead for ‘profiling’!  The next time you blurt out offensive language and shake your fist, rest assured that the odds are in your favor that what you thought was offensive is really fact.  The maniac behind the wheel more than likely was a crazy Mexican, and if not, you only stand 50% odds of being wrong.  Then it was those damn slant-eyed Vietnamese!

Mugged.

The last week we played host to my mom for a week long visit.  As anyone knows, sometimes when families get together, there are guaranteed tears, huffs and other assorted disgruntledness.  Luckily though, we made it through unscathed!  No fights, no unnecessary tears and no one disowning siblings or sons. 

However…there was one serious faux-pas.  The use of another man’s favorite mug. 

It should not be surprising to anyone who likes their coffee or tea, or any hot beverage served in a cup or mug.  Chances are, anyone who regularly drinks any hot beverage will attest to one mug winning their affections above all others.  Perhaps it is an unexplainable phenomenon, but it is a fact.

Cups are like jeans.  The more you wear a pair, the more acquainted you become with them.  Certain pairs fit you better, are longer or perhaps tighter.  As you build your relationship with your jeans, inevitably one pair is favored above all others, and are the ‘go to’ pair for any special occasion or when you just need to feel good all over.  The same with mugs. 

Some mugs you know you will love immediately, just because.  Others, it is a gradual process.  They feel right.  The handle has a perfect fit to your hand…as if it were custom made.  The rim is perfect.  The weight of the mug is perfectly balanced.  Sometimes, your drink just looks good in that mug.  Yes, and sometimes a mug becomes a favorite because of the simple fact that it is always there.  Like a trustworthy friend, they never break, leave or disappear on you.  You learn to love it because it unconditionally loves you.

I am not ashamed to say that in the moving process, I was quite concerned about a few certain mugs which are very dear to me.  When we unloaded boxes and I got to my mugs, I did hold my breath and unwrap the assorted vessels and was quite pleased to see that they all made it unscathed, especially my favorites.

Plain and simple, and no need to steal.

My super favorite mug is a large simple, plain white Starbucks issue.  No logo, no frills, just a great mug.  I spotted it left behind on a tab le at my old local drinking hole.  I walked in and told the staff on duty, “I am gonna steal that coffee mug left out there”.  Much to my surprise, one of the clerks looked up and simply replied, “Just take it-you don’t need to steal it.  It is OK” that cup has been my regular drinking partner ever since.

I was given a Paul Weller mug as a gift a while back from my brother.  This is my stand-in fave, or I drink from this if I am feeling a bit spunky or special.  I have another special mug which has been in my life for quite sometime, my Spiritualized mug.  I bought it when I saw them open for Radiohead way back in ’97.  This mug is so special, it has been semi-retired, and only used for very special occasions (like my ultra-fantastic Laughing Cow mug).  The Spiritualized mug is special because it not only looks good, but it is perfectly balanced and feels great.  It has also stained nicely too.

Nothing to add...

Shortly after we arrived in Mexico, my father came to visit (see early blogs).  This was my first encounter on foreign soil when a family member may have gone too far.  It happens innocently enough, but one morning as I came downstairs I see my Weller cup sat next to my dad, and I had yet to have anything to drink.  It could have easily been a mistake, but upon asking whose mug that was, Dad simply replied it was his.  I said nothing, but I am sure astute observers would have seen my brow furrow and a look of disdain on my face.  Why is my dad drinking out of MY Paul Weller mug?  There is a whole cabinet full of mugs, but he takes that one.  Dad doesn’t even know who Weller is-much less The Style Council or the Jam!  That is off limits for him!   On the Brightside though, I let him use it.  I smiled and enjoyed the sight of my dad drinking from a Weller mug.  You don’t see that everyday…unless you have extremely hip dad or perhaps he is an old ‘punk’ or mod.

Now, unbeknownst to me, it seems as if Tonya had adopted my Spiritualized mug as her mug of choice.  She had mentioned it recently, and I had noticed morning after morning, she sat with the blue and white mug by her side as she ate her breakfast and answered emails.  The feelings she had for the Spiritualized mug were made clear one day when my mom made the transgression.  She grabbed the wrong mug, and did so repeatedly.  To make matters worse, she also grabbed the Weller mug!

One day while in the kitchen, Tonya lowers her tone and grimaces as she tells me, “Your mom is using my mug.”  She caught me off guard, and I asked her, “Which mug is yours?” In a split second she spits out, “The Spiritualized one!  I can’t believe it; she keeps grabbing it and using it.  I even tried to hide it, and she found it!”

Tonya and the Spiritualized mug.

I understood Tonya and what she was feeling.  I knew exactly how off balance her days were now, how life was truly out of balance.  Bad enough that she can’t use her favorite mug, but seeing an intruder just set it down and use it like it is just a mug…what a horrifying sight for anyone to behold.  What do you do though?  I didn’t say anything to dad as he swelled from my Weller mug, so what can I say to mom as she yabs and laughs while carting around the sacred Spiritualized mug?  Can you ban your parents form using your favorite pop star mugs?  I just tried to console Tonya and told her to keep an eye on mom in case she got crazy, and do not let her break either of those mugs!

Today we took mom to the airport, and she was set off safely back home.  Once again, the Spiritualized and Weller mug were their accessories for breakfast.  In a brief moment though, as the dishes were in the sink, Tonya muttered to me that after today, she would have her mug back.  I know she is looking forward to rekindling her long lost love, and perhaps tomorrow each day will be a brand new and bright, shiny affair.  Yes, things will get back to normal…at least for a few hours. 

Imagine the fear that shoots through both our hearts like giant icicles knowing that not even 24 hours later Tonya’s daughters will be here visiting for Thanksgiving.  Now, there is no need to hold back if some kid grabs your mug, you just lay into them and tell them off, citing the simple fact that half-assed indie bands from Chicago and Boston don’t have mugs with their logos emblazoned on them.  This is big-time stuff, you get relegated to the chip and cracked posse-weak and lazy, just like the music they make!

Meet my new (old ) friend.

Perhaps it is best that before the kiddoes arrive, our two mugs are nuzzled safely away, far from the reach of those grubby little fingers.  Luckily, through all of this, I have come to recognize my newly found constant.  I have come to the realization that there has been a certain mug that is always there for me, sitting quietly behind the more popular choices and big band names.  I am happy knowing that come what may, my new friend is patiently waiting on me to take his handle, and have him join my day.

"Do You Paint Tomatoes?" (pt.2)

Pedro grabs his keys and opens the door.  We walk outside and Tonya is paying him endless praises for his home and the wonderful lunch.  Pedro smiles and keeps saying ‘thanks, it was nothing’ etc.  There is something very real about Pedro.  Like I said before, I hardly know this guy.   I shook his hand, he sat on my couch and one week later I ate his food and now he’s taking me to his studio.  He seems so warm and personable.  When he smiles, there is a gap between his teeth.  I like that.  His eyes are big and bright.  He’s balding, but has an even salt and pepper spread of whiskers.  He has no pretense and is easy to talk to.  He is one of those guys you want to hang around with.  It is not far to his studio.  He opens the door and ushers us in.  We go up a flight or two of stairs and he opens the door.

The Banana painting. I love this one!

The room smells thick of fresh wood. It is the first thing I notice when we step in.  I spot a small, cozy bedroom.  It is what you would imagine.  Old pictures on the wall, a simple desk and wardrobe and beautiful ornate trim around the ceiling, doors and the center light fixture in the ceiling.  I look around and right in front of me is a fantastic painting of bananas.  It is a close up, and it is bright green and yellow.  I love it.  I point and say without hesitation how much I like this one. Pedro laughs, “Thank you.  It is one of the few I have actually finished!”  Behind me I see a pile of large frames.  “Have you been cutting wood? It smells like fresh wood?” and I point to the frames.  Pedro is actually in the midst of preparing for an exhibition in San Antonio for next year.  This explains why there is a pile of frames.

His studio is in an old building too, like his home.  It is worn in and extremely cozy and welcoming.  There are bookshelves full of books.  There are paintings everywhere.  He leads us into his main workspace.  It is two rooms, and not extravagant at all.  There are shelves housing several pieces colima dogs.  He explains how he got the pieces.  In short, he told the guy he got them from “I like dogs.  All I am interested in is dogs”.  He laughs at the matter of fact statement.  Obviously, he likes dogs.  There is a work in progress tacked to the wall.  It is quite large, and is almost a panoramic view of an ancient aqueduct that is not too far away form the city.  It is colorful and almost looks like some make believe image.  However, his photo taped up on an easel shows that it is accurate.  It is a huge ancient aqueduct that goes on forever into the horizon.  He explains what he has left to do and how he gets his technique.  This is up to him to explain, not me.

Another example of his work...did not see this in real life though.

There is a desk, piled high with books, papers and all sorts of stuff beside it an old chair with a huge, worn cushion on it.  In front of it is another big portrait in the works.  It is another one of is son, holding a bird. Very nice indeed.  Careful not to trod on things, we ease into the adjoining room.  Of course, there is another wall-sized painting on the wall in front of us, “…an old one” he says.  There is a canvas stretched and attached to the wall, almost a perfect square.  There are a series of circles on it, vaguely resembling oranges…at least that is what I think.  I am drawn to this half finished sketch.  I ask Pedro to come here.  He steps back into the room and I ask him what it will be.  I am wrong.  He laughs his laugh.  I like that laugh. “No.  It is not oranges or apples” he answers me.  “ It is tomatoes.” Cool, tomatoes. Why tomatoes? He is smiling. He explains that this is just yet another piece he must do for the upcoming show. Pedro leans towards me and gives a slight nudge as he explains how it came to be, “This guy asked me, ‘Hey-do you paint tomatoes?’”, he looks at me smiling and shrugs his shoulders. “Okay, I paint tomatoes”.  Simple.  I like it.  You nervously ask a guy if he paints tomatoes, and little do you know, he will actually paint tomatoes.

It is late afternoon, post time change.  The light is somewhat yellowish.  He’s got something on his windows, so it is diffused coming in.  He points back to the work in progress of the aqueduct.  “The lighting is not too good here.  That is why I have these.  They are great, look” and he goes to the wall and turns on a light switch. He’s got some special German made lamps that perfectly replicate daylight. “You can hardly tell they are on, but they are fantastic!”  We stand and look at the painting.  As the bulb warms up, the colors all of a sudden get more vibrant.   It is almost like a different painting. It is amazing. “You see, you can’t even tell a light has been turned on,” he says.  I hold my hand out to check the beam. True, you can’t tell if you were just looking at nothing, but noting how the canvas was before the light, it is obvious.

I notice some scrawled, handwritten notes on the wall above the light switch.  There are phone numbers and dates. He has a few pieces of paper pinned up.  “Look, here is my schedule and what I have to do” he says placing his big hand on the paper to flatten it out.  He starts at the top and starts down the list.  He laughs as he goes through it because he does not have many pieces finished.  “There are a lot to do, and a lot that are only half finished…as you can see” As he goes through the list he turns and points to the pieces that are in the studio.  Some of them, he just points in the general direction of where the piece is, and never takes his eyes off the list.

This is a Colima dog.

On the shelves that hold his colima dog collection, we both notice a skull.  On the table below there is a framed drawing, lying flat on its back.  There is a book covering up half of the piece, but you can see a sketch, almost clay colored, of the profile of a skull.  Tonya points and asks if he did that. “Oh yes” he says, and he moves the book so you can see the whole piece.  It is a pair of skulls, one woman and one man. “This is old,” he says pointing his finger to the corner of the drawing, “yes, see here, it is 1978.  I did that when I was living in Paris” he turns to the shelf and grabs the skull.  He explains of where he got the skull, and when he had brought it home, it was coincidentally the exact size of the skull he had sketched. 

“It is a funny story about this skull,” Pedro says. “I bought it at this store in New York”, he tells us the name of the store, and says how it was an odd place.  (Of course, by the time I am writing this, I have forgotten the shop’s name)  “I wanted to bring it home…to Mexico” he looks at us as he is spinning the tale. “people buy skulls all the time in the States, it is no big deal, right?” he asks.  We shrug our shoulders.  I suppose so, I never thought about it, but it makes sense. Pedro continues, “It is common there, but you just don’t walk into a store and buy a human skull in Mexico” he laughs nervously, “but in Mexico, in certain places, you may actually find one!” his insinuation is well understood. “I want to take this back with me to Mexico.  I pack my skull into my bag and it is no big deal going through US customs” he starts laughing as the story continues, “I suppose customs officials in the US are used to seeing skulls in suitcases and bags.  Why would it raise suspicion?  The problem was going to be getting it back into Mexico.” Pedro is laughing pretty solid by now.  “Everything was ok, and we land in Mexico.  I had packed my skull into my bag…you know, like a…” he stalls, trying to think of how to say ‘duffle’, “yes, like a duffle bag!  The girl in front of me was carrying fruit in her bag. She had apples in her bag.  You know how the officials are here” he says as he makes a grimaced face, “you cannot bring in apples and fruit.  It is a big deal!  They go crazy when people try to bring in fruits! So, the girl in front of me places her bag down, and I place mine down too.  They start going through her bag.  I am thinking of how I am going to explain my skull.  I am wondering what to say.  All of a sudden the officials spot the apples in her bag” he opens his eyes and acts out the rest, “They point and began yelling, ‘Apples!  You have apples!  That is not allowed!’ I grabbed my bag with my skull and walked away.  They were yelling at her and everyone was wondering what was going on.  This was my escape.  I just grabbed my bag and left, walked right passed them all” Pedro’s face is alight with laughter.  It is a great story, and funny too.

Tonya spots some other sculptures she is curious about on the other set of shelves.  They are stone gourds and squashes.  “Pick them up.  They are solid, they are very heavy” Pedro says.  I try.  He is right, solid.  They are beautiful though.  Tonya and Pedro discuss these.  They are ancient pieces, and according to both of them, quite rare. We chat about a few more things, and Pedro’s time frame for getting his pieces done. I see a small table in a corner with a beat up jambox and a stack of cds that are about to fall over. “Ha!  Music, you gotta have your tunes!” I say to Pedro. He nods in agreement, “Of course, I have to have music” I see the last Dylan cd, “Hey!  This is the one that has the song about Houston on it!” and I grab it, flip it over and point to the track. Pedro looks at the disc, “Oh yes.  You know, I don’t really like this album.  His voice is…” he tugs at his throat, “his voice is not good anymore.  He is not like the old Bob Dylan, the real Bob Dylan,” he says finishing his sentence with a laugh.

This painting is the cover of the book he gave us.

“Here” he says, as walks into the hallway.  He grabs and pulls out a certain book form beneath a bigger stack of books. “I want to give this to you” he says as he lays the book down.  He looks for a pen, and pushes some stuff around until he finds one.  He opens the book and starts writing, “This is for you.  You can translate for Tim later” and when he finishes writing, he hands the book to Tonya.  Obviously she is touched.
“Oh Pedro, that is so sweet” she says, and addresses him by his pet childhood name.  They hug and talk quietly.  He has given us a nice big book of his work. “It is English too, so you can read all the stuff Tonya already knows,” he says.

Pedro shows us some more stuff, and we walk back into the hallway.   I see the banana painting again.  Again, I comment on how much I like it.  He looks at the books behind us, and pulls a huge book out.  It is by Josef Koudelka. It is heavy.  “Do you know him?  He is a Czech photographer,” Pedro asks.  I start flipping through the book.  I tell him that I do not recognize the name. Pedro tells of how this guy rambles around and sleeps on peoples’ floors, not having a real home.  He spent a lot of time living with gypsies and was one who photographed the Russian invasion into Prague in ’68.  “All the magazines, Life, Time, all the big ones in America and Europe.  They ran his photos.  He had them published in a pseudonym, so he would not get arrested…” he says as we browse at the pictures.  I hit a page with a familiar photo. “I know this guy!  I had this picture on my fridge for a long time!” I am thrilled that I am not left out in the cold on this.  Pedro seems thrilled at my jubilation.  He asks to see the photo, he agrees, “Yes, this is a great shot isn’t it”.  He flips through the book and comments on a few more photos, and then starts to put it up.  “Wait” he says, and pulls the book straight back out. “Let’s see if he wrote something in it for me.  He is a crazy guy…” and he flips to the front.  “Oh-yes, here it is” and he holds it out for us to see.  Tonya laughs at the inscription.  I have no idea because it is written in Spanish. “It is silly.  He is a funny guy,” Pedro says as he laughs and closes the book.

The photo from Koudelka which was on my fridge and in the book

Pedro shows us the small and cozy bedroom again. “Look, I have this guestroom.  When people come to visit, they can stay here if they like. You guys come stay a bit,” he says.  We laugh.  He replies, “No. Really.  Maybe you are tired of living where you are living.  Come stay here…it is ok.”  I laugh and tell him to watch out.  We just may call his bluff. “Even if it is just for a few days, or a weekend.  You are welcome anytime” Tonya is touched by his generosity and openness.  “Thank you Pedro.  Thanks for everything” she says, and they hug again.

It has gotten later in the day.  It is actually early evening now.  It is time to go.  I ask him if he will work when we leave.  He says yes, he will work until about 10 or so.  We walk out into the street and chat. I look up and point to a set of windows, “Is that yours there?” He looks up “Yes”, and then he points to the main entrance, above the doorway.  There are a few ‘L’ brackets set into the stone. “I put those there” he says with a giggle.  He points to the other windows on the faced, “See how the big stones have just fallen off?  These are big heavy bricks.  I do not want them to hit someone in the head, so I put those brackets on there.  All it takes it a little shake, and then…” he holds his hand to his head as if he were hit. “Yeah, great” I add, “and you live in a very bad zone when an earthquake hits” he stops and makes a startled look, then shakes his head, “No-I know, don’t remind me.  It’s horrible; the whole building may fall down.  The landlord who owns this place is 105.  He doesn’t get out.  Obviously, he doesn’t take care of the place; he doesn’t do anything here anymore.  If you want something done, you have to do it.”

We walk back to Pedro’s place.  We gather our things and then step back outside.  Pedro asks if we took the tram, or bus, and if we need to know how to get back.  I tell him that we drove, and we are fine.  Tonya and Pedro hug again, and exchange some words.  I give him a hearty handshake, and tell him truthfully, that I had a wonderful time. “Thank you so much for a great afternoon.  Thanks for lunch, and your wonderful hospitality.  We truly enjoyed it…” and I shake his hand again.  He smiles his big smile, and shines his big bright eyes.  He holds his hand up and says it is ok.  We exchange goodbyes and make our way back to the car.

"Do You Paint Tomatoes?" (pt. 1)

Yesterday was a fantastic day.  This is what an ideal life would be like, a beautiful day, some productive meetings and a wonderful lunch and visit with friends.  However, we’ll nix the bit about returning home to find your dogs have dumped out the trash and strewn in all over the room but were at least kind enough to pee in the guest room.  Yesterday we had lunch with Pedro Diego Alavarado.  For those who are keen on art, he is the grandson of the famous Mexican painter Diego Rivera.  To me, this meant nothing, as I am less than impressed with the whole Diego and Frida Kahlo saga.  Personally, I don’t get it.

I first met Pedro a while back at an art opening (see previous blog posts). It was one of those art-opening meetings.  A smile, a handshake and a turned back.  Out of the blue he called Tonya about a week ago and said he was coming by for a visit.  This was when I could eye this guy up close, and see what he was about.  He sauntered in and said hello.  The dogs swarming around him, he smiled and rubbed their heads and sat down on the couch.  I liked him immediately.  He is a big guy (for Mexicans), and a great smile.  He has a funny, almost nervous laugh…and had on nice shoes.  He was very personable and easy to talk to.  This brief meeting was all I knew of him.  Tonya grew up with him, so she obviously has a longer and better knowledge of this guy.  As he winds down his visit, he invites us for lunch.  He pulls out his phone and types in the lunch date.  He gets a piece of paper and scrawls out a map to his home.  “Ok.  See you next Wednesday for lunch” he says as he gets up to leave the house.

This is Wednesday and it is lunchtime.  We haven’t heard a peep and assume lunch is still on.  As a matter of chance, we were already in the neighborhood because of a previous meeting.  Better yet, he lives only a few streets away.  We strike out through the neighborhood to find our way to Pedro’s house.  Typical of us in Mexico City, we get lost.  It doesn’t seem as bead as being lost while driving though.  We stop and ask random people on the street if they know of the street we are looking for.  No one does.  When someone says he does, he points us in a different direction than the previous guy does.  As we are nearing our starting point, completing a big circle, we pass two guys standing between cars, and one of them is acting out a previous scenario.  He’s been drinking.  I am shocked that Tonya asks these two dudes if they know where we are supposed to be.  The drunk does.  He tells us over and over and over, slurring repeatedly as he motions with his hands.  Tonya keeps smiling and tells him thanks after each time he tells us where to go.  As luck would have it, we were actually very close to where we should be.

In a matter of moments we find ourselves at his front door.  We ring the bell and the maid calls out from behind the door, “Who is it?”  Tonya answers and the door opens.  The little smiling maid tells us to come in.  We step inside and up the steps and Pedro comes out of a side room.  “Tonya” he says, and he leans to give her a kiss.  His big smile makes me smile.  He shakes my hand and tells us to come in and sit.  He is finishing up some business and will only be a minute.  We walk in to his living room and sit down on an old red velvet couch.  There are paintings and trinkets everywhere, and a big portrait of his mother on the wall opposite us. “I think that is his mom” Tonya whispers to me as we sit scanning the room.

“You want a tequila?” asks Pedro.  We look at one another like deer in headlights.  I don’t like drinking in the afternoon…I haven’t even had lunch yet!  We both politely refuse.  He tells the maid to bring three tequilas anyway.  We have enough time to take in some more of the art lining the walls before the maid comes in.  She brings in two very large shot glasses of tequila and a small plate with salt and lime.  Only amateurs use salt and lime.  She moves a few books on the coffee table and makes room for the plate and glasses. Tonya makes her eyes go big at the sight of the shot glasses.  They have a great old house.  It smells great; looks great…even the crooked paintings look like that is how they should be.  The wooden floors are are worn, there are gaps below the doors going out back.  I hear sniffing and whining, there is a dog around here somewhere.  I even like the way the floor creaks when you walk.  Tonya and I both sit and look at the ceiling, the floors, all around the place.  “You have such a lovely home,” Tonya tells Pedro.  He mutters something polite and is putting away his work he was doing.  On the dining table where he is at, there is a platter piled high with fruit in the center of the table.  On the edge of the table is a platter of steamed vegetables.  Broccoli, snap peas and carrots.  The house is fantastic, but I am starting to eye this food pretty intently.

Pedro comes and pulls a chair up to sit opposite us.  He grabs his glass and holds it up, we tap glasses. “Na Zdorovia” I say and it gets an instant chuckle out of Pedro, and he repeats it in s soft but deep voice.  We sit and talk while we wait on his wife Carla to come home for lunch.  The topic of tequila is discussed briefly.  Tonya asks him about the painting of his mother.  He explains the details about to her.  It is strange, because just the night before Tonya was telling me of when his mother was ill and about to pass.  She told of how she went and visited her, and her great bed with a red velvet cover.  It all seemed so majestic to her as a girl.  The painting made the story all the more real to me, as it looked like a majestical and somewhat ethereal woman with flowing black hair and big clear eyes staring down at us.  I could see how a kid would be in awe.

The doorbell rings and Pedro gets up to answer the door.  A woman is heard in the hallway and Tonya says it’s his wife.  Sure enough, she comes breezing in with a wisp of air s her escort.  She too, has big eyes.  She greets Tonya and then turns to me and shakes my hand.  She starts talking and when she realizes that I do not speak Spanish, she announces, “O.k.  We will all speak English at lunch.  We all speak it so it is no problem” She seems somewhat stern and very matter of fact.  She turns to Tonya and asks again, “What is your name?”  This will be replayed several times throughout lunch.  She keeps forgetting Tonya’s name.  “Let’s sit and eat,” she says as she pulls her chair out. “Come…let’s eat!” and we grab our chairs like nervous school kids. 

We sit for a moment and chat, and I notice her grab Pedro’s tequila.  She starts to tell of her crazy day at work.  As she talks I look at the paintings behind her.  Out of the corner of my eye I see a little woman entering into the room.  She walks up to the table and hands Carla a bowl of soup, then Pedro, and then us.   Carla is very direct and she makes a statement that among uptight liberals may be taken to heart.  She catches herself and giggles, “Oh. I am sorry.  That was mean wasn’t it? I hope you…” she is saying in a flurry.  Before I can answer she continues, “…but you don’t care anyway!”  She is smiling.  I like her immediately too.  She is very direct and has no qualms speaking her mind or probing for whatever information she wants to know.  Lively only halfway describes her and charming is not anywhere close. The little maid comes from the other room carrying a large platter of rolled tacos (or ‘flautas’ for those at home).  It is a huge pile.  Carla pulls up a small white dining cart and the woman sets the platter down. I have no clue what they are, but form the mountain of food, I am already excited. 

As the platter is handed toward me, Pedro announces “Ahhh.  The specialty of the house.  Chicken tacos.  They are great” No doubt by looking at his face, he loves these things too.  I grab a few and pass the platter around.  A few tacos start to fall off towards Carla.  I try to steady the plate and say “Oops!”  Carla immediately shoots back, “That is ok!  That is meant to happen, it is a trick, now I can get more tacos” and she grabs them up. “She loves them!” Pedro adds. I grab some of the lush vibrant steamed vegetables to add to my delight.

These tacos are awesome.  Everyone is talking and scarfing them down like we are all family.  There is no need for manners, just talk and eat.  Pedro and Carla are sitting opposite us.  There are four small bowls between them.  One bowl of cheese, one of cream, and one red salsa and one green.  I am eyeing them intently, because I want to sample the culinary delights.  “Are they good, do you like them?” Carla asks.  As if she needs to ask.  I tell her the obvious answer.  She suddenly realizes my tacos are dry, “Oh!  You did not try it with cream?  Here you must do it with this…” and she hands me one of the bowls.  I put the cream on my tacos and then seize the chance to try and get some more of the bowls those two are hording. “Can I have the salsa?” I ask.  She looks down to scan the table for the salsa, “Of course, I am sorry” and she hands me the green salsa.  It immediately goes onto the taco too. Man, it just gets better.

Carla directs the conversation.  It bounces to and fro.  I volley back, if she says something that makes me think of something else, I bounce it back.  Everyone is talking and having some laughs.  The little maid comes out and sets two more bowls on the dining cart, one of rice and one of beans.  I am so relaxed.  The food is great.  Pedro and Carla are being so warm and receptive, and the whole room just feels great.  The giant window is open and the sun beaming in.  We can see people walking down the street.  I wonder if they are going to pass the beans and rice around.  I grab some more tacos and offer to pass the plate around.  Pedro takes a few, as does Tonya.  I strategically placed the bowl of cream to the side, but in the center of the table.  I load up.  I take a chance and point to the bowl between Carla and Pedro, and blurt out, “Can I try some of the red salsa?” Pedro laughs.  It is obvious in the course of our chat that they never bothered to look at what was next to them or us.  He hands me the bowl and Carla apologizes.  The little maid is coming in again carrying another platter with tacos.  Our pyramid-sized pile has barely hit the midway point. The maid sits the dish down and speaks to Carla.  Her eyes light up.  She looks at us and asks, “Ahhh.  Do you know what these are?  Papas!  These are fantastic!” and Pedro shakes his head and confirms how great these are.  “If you thought those were good, these are even better,” Carla adds.

No joking.  The potato tacos are tasty…and spicy.  They have chorizo in them too. Man!  This is a great lunch.  If only I could get my hands on the beans and rice, then it would be the full deal.  I feel cheated without the beans and rice.  Carla grabs for a pitcher that has been sitting untouched.  It is a large pitcher, filled with something red.  I was thinking it was sangria, but it looked like weak sangria.  She pours herself a glass, then a bit to Pedro.  “Did you like this…?” she says holding the pitcher.  I shake my head and tell her, “I have not tried it.  I have no clue what it is”.  She hands the pitcher to me and the whole table chimes in explaining what it is. Hibiscus water. “Oh, but there is no sugar” Carla says.  That is ok; I do not want sweet Kool-Aid flavored stuff anyway.  I pour myself some and take a sip.  It is sharp and a little bitter.  I like it.  As Carla piddles on her side of the table, she bumps the dining cart and looks to see what has happened.  She sees the bowls of rice and beans and exclaims, “Oh no! Look!  We have rice and beans” and she picks up the beans and holds them over the table.  “Would you like some?  Take it, dip your tacos in them” Before she finishes her sentence I have a pile of beans on my plate.  I think in all the excitement of finally getting the beans the rice passed me by.  I never got any.

I will attest.  The only thing better than a great meal is a great meal with great conversation.  Don’t know about Pedro and Carla, but we were having a fantastic time.  I lost track of how many tacos I ate.  The maid came out and asked if we wanted coffee or tea.  “Coffee” blurts out of my mouth almost like a burp.  Pedro seconds the motion, Tonya nods and Carla tells the maid to bring us coffee.  “Oh, look.  There are more tacos.  Eat some more Tim…” Carla says as she stands to help the maid remove the platters.  I politely refuse. She starts laughing and says, “It’s ok, I will make you a Tupperware container full of them” doing a boxlike motion with her hands.  She says they wont last long.  As soon as the kids get home from school, they will vanish. No wonder why this family loves them so much, because they are amazing!

Pedro gets up and starts to close the window.  Carla says no, and then he says he will switch places, as the sun is right in his eyes.  He now sits at the head of the table, next to Tonya.  This is when Tonya starts asking him about the art on the walls in the dining room.  There are three main portraits on the opposite wall that he did.  One of each of his kids, and in the middle, his wife. “That is me,” she says, pointing at the portrait.  She pulls her hair back tight, crosses her eyes, “You see?  It is isn’t it?” I laugh, but crossing the eyes and pulling the hair back made an exact match.  Pedro explains the artwork that Tonya asks about.  The coffee arrives, as does a plate of simple cookies.  “Eat them Tim.  They are kiddie cookies, they love them” Carla instructs.  I obey.  I pick up a few and dunk straight into my coffee.  Since Pedro has moved places, Carla can stretch out a bit.  Full bellies now, so more detailed conversing begins.  Throughout the course of lunch we have heard of how chintzy the government is here.  It is shocking the way exhibitions hardly receive the funding they are promised.  “This is a very poor country you know,” comments Carla, “it is sad and embarrassing how things are really handled here”.  However, both tell of the headaches of French bureaucracy in dealing with exhibits too.  There is talk about poetry, stage design for the Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd.  Travel, life abroad, Mexico, Tonya and Pedro’s childhood, family and the Zocalo.  In the course of our lunch, we talked about almost anything you could think of, even the Olmecs and hunchbacks!  Being that Pedro is an artist, of course artists were discussed as well.

Carla is on her lunch break, and must get back to work.  She stands and starts to get a few things together. “Ok, let’s go to the studio” says Pedro.  He stands too.  We exchange our goodbyes with Carla and she goes upstairs, yelling down her good wishes as she vanishes. 

(to be continued...)