The Wonders of Leonor (Pt. 3)

I slept horribly, or should I say, I didn’t sleep.  There was a stupid cat in heat that was moaning all night, it then decided to trot around the roof and do its mating moans above where we lay.  The bed may have been ornate, but it was not long enough for me.  I had to sleep in a crouching position and could not stretch my legs.  I was uncomfortable.  Still, we got up opened the shutters and the big black cavern filled with light.  I could smell something good floating in the air.  I was anxious to see what was for breakfast.

Leonor greets us with a shining face and a big smile.  She is making paper thin sliced potatoes layered in eggs and a side of roasted peppers. Yummy, but the roasted peppers spell disaster for me.  She sets coffee down in front of us and asks how we slept.  I lie and say, “Great! You?”

“Oh, I slept very well.  I woke up at 4 and looked out the window.  The sky was beautiful, so clear” she says. “You know that bed you slept in once belonged to Lincoln” she adds as she is preparing breakfast. “I am not sure, because it was Manuel’s, but he said it belonged to Lincoln at one time”  Maybe I just slept in a little bit of history, but I know Lincoln was not as tall as me…otherwise he would have been a miserable guy for never getting a decent nights sleep.

Awesome breakfast in an awesome kitchen on a fantastic stove.

Breakfast is great (of course) and I go easy on the peppers but supplement with some bread.  Leonor asks what we would like to do.  We have no real plans, just snoop around and see what Guanajuato is all about.  We take our time and have a leisurely breakfast.  I ask Leonor if her maid is a good cook.  She doesn’t even answer, just shakes her head then blurts out a quick and sharp, “No. Can’t even cut an onion” She says she has to instruct her on what to do.  When Leonor is there, she is really an assistant in the kitchen.  We then get the complete story of her helpers and their family. When the food is nearly gone and after plenty of coffee and conversation, we decide we should get moving.  Just as before, Leonor is out the door with flying colors awaiting us to catch up.

We back out of the driveway and Leonor tells us that we will do a driving tour first. “I will take you through the mountains and around Guanajuato, so you can see it from above” Sounds good to me, I tell her to just tell me where to go.  We stop briefly at an old mine, and get out of the car to look out over the town. It’s beautiful.  The skies are bright blue and it is crisp outside.  As we look out over the town she tells us a brief bit of where we are standing and its history.  I take a few photos and quickly back into the car to see what else lies ahead.  As we twist through neighborhoods lining the mountains, Leonor says an architect friend of hers just built a small group of apartments here, “I don’t like it” she adds.  She is never afraid to say what she feels or call how she sees it.  The streets are small, and as we wind through one neighborhood we come to a halt.  The trash truck is emptying out a dumpster and there is no room to pass.  Even a cyclist stops and waits for a chance to squeeze by. 

We descend into a part of the city which has some truly wonderful architecture.  It is an area where Leonor says many professors and teachers live who teach at the University.  There are a few boutique hotels too. It looks incredible.  We wind through a large market, and Leonor tells us the history of the place as we sit in traffic. ‘It used to be like in Paris!” she says as she tells of how the market was ruined when made some purpose built area for it instead of it spread along the walkways.  As we drive through town, it is nearly impossible to find a straight street.  If it is straight, not for long.  You constantly turn and twist, go through tunnels and bridges between old houses.  The streets are narrow and this feels more like some Italian or French small town rather than the cradle of Mexico’s independence.  After winding through the narrow streets, Leonor points out a parking garage and we pull in.  I am taken back by the insistence that passengers must get out before you park.  According to Leonor, it is not uncommon.  I find a place almost immediately, squeeze in and make my way back down on foot to meet Leonor and Tonya.

The famous 'kissing alley'

We start walking and as we do, we are all smiles, and just cannot stop commenting on what a unique look and feel this place has.  To simply use the term ‘charming’ does not do it proper justice. It is amazing! It is freaky!  It is intoxicating!  Leonor leans in to me and says, “This.  This is real Mexico.  There is no faking it here.” and she laughs. Fine, all I know is I enjoy this so much.  We stop in a sweet shop, and Tonya goes nuts.  Around the corner is a famous spot where the alley is so narrow, the buildings almost touch.  You can kiss the person in the building across from you.  This is “Callejón del Beso” It is a famous spot and tourists line up in the alleyway like street to take photos of kissing one another below a balcony.  Students from the university do serenading here at certain times during the week.   We walk between the tightly packed homes and through the alleyways in complete awe.  It is like being in a brightly colored maze, and every so often the buildings part and open onto another square or fountain.  Undoubtedly the most amazing town I have seen in Mexico.

A view from the main square, looking up at El Pipila

After walking for a bit Leonor leads us into the main square of the town. “What’s the big deal with Don Quixote here?” I ask her.  She takes my arm, “Oh, I will have to sit down and explain that to you, we will do that”.  However, now she would like to rest a bit and says she will buy a paper and will chat with one of her friends.  We decide to go up to   a monument on a hill overlooking the center of town, El Pípila.  I read that from this point, you get a truly wonderful view of the town.  Leonor chooses a bench and says she will wait and do her thing and tells us to go ahead.  We do.  There is a cable car which takes people up the side of the mountain to the site.  We find its entrance and get into the little car.  There is one man and an Asian lady wearing a goofy hat standing inside.  We step in and the door shuts and the tiny glass car jerks its way into motion.  Both Tonya and the Asian lady have a look of fear on the face as we rise above the rooftops and look down to where we started from.  It is a simple and crude cable car and does not feel like the safest thing built.  We get out at the top, take a quick look and then back into the glass box for a frightening creep back down the mountain.  As we move slowly downwards Tonya whispers, “Can you imagine what would happen if this cable broke? Not pretty…”

View of Guanajuato from the Pipila.

We meet back up with Leonor and she introduces us to her friend.  As we sit together and talk, she spots another friend going into a nearby restaurant.  She gets her attention and we exchange another greeting.  The ladies talk for a few moments and catch up on some gossip.  One lady tells us of a good exhibit of arts and crafts not far away.  Leonor says we should go, and we disperse.  As we near the spot her other friend peels off to go where she needs to go.  We walk into the exhibition and after a quick round; Leonor shakes her head and says, “This is not good. Do you like it?” she asks us.  We both shake our heads.  She leads us back into the streets and winding to who knows where.  We stop at a few different squares and at each one, we get a story.  The first story Leonor tells is how she was in a bookstore one day and saw a grey-haired man that she just knew was a foreigner. “He was like Gregory Peck, but much older” she says.  She was so intrigued with the man that she walked over and tried to think of what to say to make for an introduction, “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked the man.  She laughs and says she felt so embarrassed, but only said the first things out of her mouth.  The man simply replied, “No”.  He said he lived there and was looking for books. Amazingly, he was also an architect.  He was originally from Bellingham Washington, and was there to lecture at the University. “I had to get him home to meet my husband. I knew immediately that they would get along so well” she says of the grey haired gentleman.  She talked to the man to find out where he was staying, then went back home to Manuel and told him that they had to head back to this small hotel immediately.  Manuel loved meeting new people, so he was excited to see who this would turn out to be.  The two men hit it off immediately.  They became good friends and one time when the stranger was invited back to their house, Manuel was having a heyday with him telling wild tales and just leading him on an array of adventures.  Sitting in their den Manuel abruptly stops the tale he’s unraveling and points at the stranger, ‘That chair that you sit in…it is the very chair that Pancho Villa was killed in!”  The stranger was aghast!  He was so taken back with the fact that he was sitting in such a famous chair.  Leonor is bent over with laughter as she says, “He did not know Manuel was teasing him.  Pancho Villa was gunned down in a car!  Manuel never had the heart to tell him that it was all in good fun”  Leonor says that the man was so proud to have met Manuel and to have sat in such a famous chair, that this one incident was a true highlight, and he repeated his story to all of his friends back home.

As we sit on a bench, Leonor asks if we should get a chicken for lunch or if she and Tonya should cook.  Before we can truly decide, Leonor orders us up and onwards.  She takes us through some alleys and into yet another square.  This one is odd, as on one side there are some green metal bleachers facing a church on the other side of the square.  I am stricken with the site of this square, as in the middle of it is a large cross with several bent posts sticking out from it.  “We will sit here.  Tim, I will now tell you about Don Quixote and Cervantes” Oddly enough, this small town is home to one of the largest, if not the largest, collection of Don Quixote drawings, paintings and oddities.  Once again, we get a full story and a very enlightening history on how this town became such a key place for Cervantes, and hosts a huge Cervantes festival every year. The Festival Internacional Cervantino.  She even explains why the torch posts are bent surrounding the cross.  “OK.  I think we should get a chicken for lunch” she says as she stands and is ready to move on.  Being with Leonor means that you will never have time to get bored.

(...continued)

The Wonders of Leonor (Pt.2)

Leonor had told us about one of her helpers, who recently said he saw a ghost.  He saw her husband downstairs, milling about in his old office.  When the helper told Leonor he had to tell her something important, she expected something bad.  When he told her he had seen the ghost of her husband, she said, “Well, what did you say?”  The helper said nothing.  He just watched Manuel pass through the room.  He was afraid to address the apparition. “Why didn’t you tell him that you are watching over his house?” she said she asked the man as she laughed.  She continues on and says that the man lights a candle every night now, in some way to ward off any more appearances from the previous owner of the house. 

“Where did he see Manuel?” I ask.

“Downstairs.” She says. There is nothing odd about reports of ghost in old homes she says, after all, if a place has been there a long time, things are bound to happen in them. “Think about this place.  It is very old; surely there have been strange things happen in here that we know nothing about.” Leonor asks if we saw the room below.  We peeked in, but did not go inside because we were not sure if it was her place or not.  Tonya said she thought it was part of her house, because of the noticeable style.  Leonor says she is not afraid of ghosts or anything. In fact, she feels incredibly comfortable here, and says she sleeps better here than anywhere else she has lived.  No wonder really, as she and her husband lived her for over 40 years.  There is a lot in this house, both figuratively and literally.  Leonor asks if we would like some coffee, and orders her maid to make some, “Let’s move into the other room and enjoy the sunset” she says.

We plop down onto a cozy couch and Leonor sits opposite us.  The sun shining in her face.  We talk of more things and it seems as if no matter what topic comes up, there is a story that can relate to it.  The conversation carries on so that we miss the full effect of the sunset.  When we realize this, Leonor says that tomorrow we will have to go on to the roof for a fantastic view and to watch the sun slide away.  Leonor has told her help that we will take them home tonight.  Now that the sun has gone, there is no more work to be done outside, and she is ready to let her helpers go.  She excuses herself and goes to tell her maid and her helper that if they are finished, we can drive them now.

It is a little after six, but the sun has dropped behind the mountains.  It is dark.  We get in the car, and Leonor starts to instruct me on where to go.  Driving at night in Mexican mountains can be quite a thrill.  There are no street lights, and on many hairy turns, no guard rails either.  As we drive past one steep drop, I look to my right to catch a glimpse of the town.  Instead, I notice a steep drop off into nowhere.  I have a split second of uneasiness.  To calm myself, I poke Tonya and ask her if she saw what I just saw.  She shoots back for me to be quiet, that she feels very nervous driving through these twisting roads. “I fell sick looking down” she says.  We both laugh as we keep on to who knows where.  We drive further into the mountains to neighboring village.  I find it interesting how I have not seen a single other car since we started out.  “Does anyone drive on this road after dark?” I ask aloud, wondering if we are suckers for this undertaking.  Leonor translates to her maid.  She says that the buses do, but very few cars.  I feel slightly stupid being the guy driving a car at this time on this road.

As we come upon the outskirts of their village, they tell us to drive up a small hill and drop them off.  Leonor says goodbye to them, and they tell us “Gracias”.  We smile and wave back.  We go downhill, and start our trek back.  I am not too much for conversing, as I sit wide eyed and hands grasping the steering wheel.  It is darker even now, and as we round the first major curve, a bus goes blasting by.  If that is how these buses drive at night on these roads, it is a wonder that anyone is still alive. ‘That is the bus that they would have been on” Leonor points out.

When we get back home, Leonor asks if we are hungry.  I am not used to eating late lunches and going without dinner.  She says that we should at least have a glass of wine.  “Yes!” I chime in.  I could use a glass after all of this.  She tells us to sit at the table again, and brings out some cheeses, some bread and crackers and a bottle of wine.  ‘I feel bad Tim, not having dinner for you.  Is this OK?”  I smile and tell her everything is fine.  This fires off another round of thanks to her for inviting us into her home.  We sit and start peeling off strips of cheese as we talk, and with a glass of wine in front of each of us, we’re off again.

“Tim.  What do you think of Spanish?  Do you like it?  Are you learning the language?” Leonor turns to me.  I hate it when people here ask me this question.  I don’t want to lie, but this is a brutally honest answer. “I don’t.  I do not like Spanish at all…” It looks as if Leonor is a bit taken back with this, but maybe not.  “I do not like the way it sounds.  It has never appealed to me in the slightest.  I would like to be able to share a joke with people and have a laugh.  I would like to understand more and communicate when I have to, but I do not want to speak it fluently” I spill the hard truth.  I admit that it may have something to do with the fact that when I was young, I could not pronounce my ‘r’s good.  The Mexicans roll their 'r’s every chance they get.  The longer and more pronounced the roll, the better.  It is intimidating to a guy who really doesn’t want to try and utter this language, and when he comes face to face with any words with an r, he feels very inept.  Leonor lightens up and says she understands.  She had relatives here who never learned to speak Spanish, and Tonya’s father never took it seriously either.  Leonor has a story on this very topic, which she happily tells us.

One of her workers in Mexico City could not speak at all until he was 10 years old!  She describes the guy, and we both say we know who he is.  He is a dark guy, and he has Stevie Ray Vaughan teeth.  Those short, thick flat teeth like apes have.  When he does smile, it looks like a thin white line along the bottom of his brown gums.  We have made him smile before though, and he did warm up a bit to us, eventually taking some furniture that Tonya had offered to him. 

“This man could not speak until he was 10 years old.  At first, the family thought he was just quiet.  As he got older, they thought he had some sort of disability, but he didn’t.  He just could not talk!” Leonor says. “So, when he was 10, the family decided to take him to an old church in Toluca.  It was a very old St. Peter’s church.  Do you know St. Peter?” she asks before continuing.  I am not catholic, so I have no clue; I tell her a simple “no”.  “He is the keeper of the keys.  He holds the keys of heaven!” she says before admitting that aside from that, she is not sure what he does. “So-they took this young boy to the church and explained to the priest that he is 10 years old and does not talk.  The priest talked things over with the family to learn a bit more, and then asked to see the boy.  He looked at the boy.  He left and came back, and he held a set of old keys in his hand.  He told the boy to open his mouth, and took one of these big old keys to the church, and stuck it in his mouth”  Leonor opens her mouth and makes a swirling motion like she is doing the same, ‘The priest took these big old keys and put them into the boys mouth.  He went around and around his mouth, and touched his tongue with the key.  After that, the boy could soon begin to speak!  Can you imagine? Those old keys in your mouth?  I hope they disinfected them somehow!” she says with a load of laughter. “Tim, maybe we can take you to see this priest too!”  She seemed to think this was quite funny and we did as well.

As time wound down and the wine disappeared, Leonor announced she was tired and ready for bed, “With this” she said holding up her wine glass, ‘I will sleep like baby”.  We pick a bit and she says we are welcome to stay in the main room, but we feel a bit strange hanging out in there when she goes off to bed.  We politely decline and resign ourselves to our quarters.  She says good night and throws in a quick, ‘Hope you don’t see any ghosts!”

Tonya repeats the sentiment as we hear her lock the door behind us and we make our way to our room.  Once the lights start to go off, it is very, very dark here.  We get inside and close the big doors and set the latch, ‘Don’t want any boogiemen coming in” I tell Tonya.  We plop down on the bed and ask one another what the time is.  Barely 9pm!  What will we do now?  We laugh at our situation and how at home we would just be finishing up dinner.  Now, we are here and things are locked down tight under this veil of darkness.  Thankfully we thought ahead and brought some downloaded episodes of a series we have been watching.  We plug in a laptop and set it at the foot of the bed and crawl under the layers of blankets on the big old bed and catch up on our series.  Typical of Tonya, she falls asleep before the first episode is halfway done. 

I get up and put the computer away and turn off the remaining light.  I pull the covers up and look into a complete abyss.  This big room is solid black when the lights go out.  Now all is quiet and we are about to sleep in this very old house.  Thoughts race through my head as I look up at where the ceiling is even though I can’t see it.  There is not a sliver of light seen anywhere.  It has been a good day, and I am happy to be here.  I hope for a restful night.  Tonya’s already off to sleep and as I try to find my way there too, a stray cat is crying outside.  I hope Manuel doesn’t decide to come say hello.

(...continued)

The Wonders of Leonor (Pt.1)

The prospect of going away for the weekend with your landlady would not normally sound like much of an enticing outing.  Obviously, you do not share our landlady. 

After a handful of invites to go to see her home in Guanajuato, we finally concede to make the journey, not knowing what to expect once we all pile into a car and start on our way…much less what happens when you get there and have no where to go and are left to the whims of your landlady.  An adventure it will be, no doubt.

We had to drop the dogs off with the Italian dog lady before we start our trek.  Tonya told Leonor we would be ready to go by 9 or 9:30.  I told Tonya to err on the side of caution, and shoot for 10-ish.  As we open the gate and pull into the drive at around 9:45, there are several bags sitting in the drive, complete with half a dozen poinsettias and a few boxes and three chairs. Leonor is obviously ready to go.  We still have to go get our last minute things together, grab a bit to eat and do your number ones and twos.  I go out to the car and start to pack in Leonor’s things.  She comes out and directs where to put things and asks if this can go there and that here.  We manage to get it all in and leave a small space for our small bag.  Leonor gets in the car, closes the door and sits patiently.  We are in our place snickering over that simple fact, and trying to hurry as fast as we can.  As we grab our last things and lock up, making our way down the driveway Tonya says, “Oh-look how cute. Leonor is sitting all alone in the backseat waiting on us”  I get in, look back at her flash a smile and get one in return, ‘You ready to go Leonor, are you OK?”  She smiles brightly and says she’s ready-let’s go!

It took an hour to get out of the city.  It is always a crapshoot trying to go anywhere in this chaotic metropolis.  It was overcast, and as we were slowly creeping along the highway, I was growing sleepy.  It was from boredom, not anything else.  Tonya and Leonor were gabbing away.  I was trying to listen to Van Morrison’s “It’s Too Late To Stop Now”, but wasn’t getting much enjoyment.  At one point in between conversations, Leonor asks, “Who is this we are listening to?”

“Van Morrison”, Tonya says.

“Is he a black man?”

“No, he’s Irish actually” I reply.

“He sounds like a black man” she says.  Then she starts up again, resuming the conversation with Tonya.  Don’t get me wrong, I am not totally left out of the conversation, I get pulled in every so often. “There is a good coffee place up here.  We can stop and get a coffee if you like” she says.  Tonya nods in agreement, and as we finally get on the outskirts of town and pass our first toll booth, she guides us to the roadside coffee stand.  It is an hour into the trip, and we stop for a drink and I do a bit of odd calisthenics outside to stretch a bit.  I walk back in to check on Tonya and Leonor and the coffees have not been done yet.  We chat for a few, and everyone decides to take a potty break.  I am left in charge of the coffees.  They are set on the counter in front of me a few moments later and I start to fit the lids on the drinks.  I turn to move, and feel a push right above my waist.  I turn to see what it was.  An older Mexican lady staring straight ahead, not at me, and wearing cheap pink sandals.  She has made it obvious I should not step back, but instead move sideways.  I do, and furrow my brow in the process. “We are going to eat some of things Tonya brought” Leonor happily says.

I like that about Leonor.  She likes to eat, and when she does, she doesn’t care about anything else.  She likes food.  So do I.

We make pretty good time once we’re out of the city.  Every so often Leonor pulls herself forward and tells me something or points out some small village we are approaching.  We all chat back and forth as we carry on, and I check on her when she falls silent.  As I turn to cast a smile and see if she needs anything, I see her slumped back in the seat.  She opens her eyes as I address her, and I realize that she was starting to nap.  She says she will take a short siesta, and we should just keep driving until we see the sign Irapuato/Guanajuato.  As we get closer to Guanajuato, there are actually several signs that have this combination on them.  We gamble and keep driving and let her sleep.  After about half an hour, my Lewis and Clark instincts tell me we are nearer to Irapuato than I realize.  Tonya reaches back and gently wakes Leonor, who sits up immediately and surveys the landscape.  “Yes, we are very close” she says.  When the time is right, she instructs me to get to the right and exit.  She says she is taking us on a more scenic route.  We have one more toll booth, and as we are pulling up, a Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton song comes on.

“Oh. What is this we are listening to now, is this Texas music?” she asks.

Tonya turns to her and tells her how much I like old country music, and Leonor tells me to turn it up.  I happily oblige.  Of course, when we tell her who it is singing, she has no idea.  It does start her telling us of what she likes to listen to though.  I hear her talking, but not to us.  She is on her cell phone calling her maid instructing her that we are almost there, and what to start preparing for lunch.

We get to Guanajuato shortly thereafter.  There are no traffic lights or stop signs.  It is imperative to have someone with you who is an insider; otherwise it would be very easy to get turned around and lost.  She is a good co-pilot though, telling me to go right here, under this tunnel, to the left there, up this hill and so on.  As we wind through the town, I am thinking about lunch.  Road food doesn’t cut it for me.  I am sure there will be something quite tasty served up for us after we arrive.

She tells me to pull over next to a church.  She says that her helper has not opened the gate yet, and we will have to turn around when he does open it.  I have no idea which house is hers, so I just look for the first wooden gate to start opening.  ‘There he is!” I say when I see one start to move.  Her helper/handyman steps out and is looking for a car which he has never seen.  Leonor catches his attention, and he waves us onward to the gate.  We pull in under a canopy of greenery.  It feels good to get out of the car.  I look around and there are plants everywhere and a very old house.  Her helper comes over and Leonor instructs him on what to do.  We say hello, and I reach out to shake his hand.  He makes a loose fist so I shake his wrist.  He smiles and I feel awkward.  I tell Tonya of the incident and she says she is sure he is not being rude.  I put it off to maybe he cannot use his hand.  Then I see him unloading the car.  How can he carry bags, suitcases and chairs if he can’t use his hand?  I watch closely as he picks up a box. He uses both hands.  I am perplexed.  (Leonor later tells me that it is because he is ashamed of his calloused hands.)
 

Leonor smiles as she opens the door.  Tonya and I are floored at this place.  It is amazing.  I walk in and as I try to take it all in, Leonor smiles and points behind two thick wooden doors into a magnificent room with 20 ft. ceilings.  There is an ornate bed with lamps hanging beside it, “I hope this is OK.  This is where you will stay” she says.  The handyman may be ashamed of his hands but I am almost too shy to comply. “Really?”  Leonor just laughs, ‘Yes.  Come on, I will show you my house”

This is special.  It is not everyday that one gets to see behind these old walls at what wonders lie inside.  We have been fortunate to meet Leonor, and now that she is taking us to her home, I feel very special.  Her home is like a museum, full of old religious paintings and artifacts, books, photos, drawings and paintings from her deceased husband.  We wonder and look at everything form the ceiling, to the chairs, to the odd scribbling randomly done across the walls of the house.  I am immediately intrigued by these cryptic messages.  ‘What are all these markings on the wall?” I ask her from another room.  She walks in and says, “Those are points on the wall where the sun hit.  They are all dated with the day and time on them.  Manuel liked to do that.  When he saw the lighting in a certain way or perhaps a shadow cast onto the wall that he liked, he would go to it and mark it with the day and time it happened”  Leonor’s home is beautiful, but for the first 15 minutes, I can’t stop looking at all of the markings.

Some of Manuel's scribbles and notations

Looking out one of the windows

The view out of the windows is wondrous.  Standing in the living room, you gaze out over the valley in which Guanajuato is built.  All around you see wide open sky, the mountains on both side and the quirky city below.  It is late afternoon now, and the golden light fills the room with a rich glow.  Tonya and I keep repeating how in awe we are.  Leonor keeps laughing, obviously amused at our reaction. 

Leonor is an interesting woman.  Her husband was an architect, and happens to be Tonya’s favorite.  Since she was a child she had dreamed of owning and living in one of his homes.  Her dream is partly true now, and she stands in his very home.  Leonor appreciates the fact that Tonya is a big fan, and this is obviously one of the reasons she invited us to she their home and all of their belongings.   Leonor is very proud of her husband’s work, and rightfully so.  Manuel had a unique take on things, and seeing all the old photos around the home is touching to see the images of her and her husband.  They definitely enjoyed one another's company, and she has amassed a huge amount of stories from her travels with Manuel.   We feel slightly overwhelmed with our introduction to the home, the views of the valley and her openness.  I stand in the main room, and look out over the valley below.

Pictures of Leonor in Manuel's studio

Unknown, Diego Rivera, Leonor, Unknown, Manuel

Manuel built this house from some old ruins dating back to the 17^th century.  At one time, this building was the administrative offices of the mines which line the mountains of Guanajuato.  It sprawls down the side of a mountain, with room after room, and a cascading garden that goes down several levels.  Leonor loves this home, and says how Manuel used to always say, “I have a home.  I want to be in it!”  They loved to have guests over and meet new people.

Leonor comes out of amazing kitchen where she has been checking on lunch.  “Come, sit.  Would you like a beer or tequila?” she asks.  We walk to the dining table and take our seats.  Leonor disappears and returns with a beer for me.  She sits at her place, and the maid brings out lunch.  Its meatloaf, surrounded by a ring of bright orange carrots!  I can’t believe it.  “Mexicans eat meatloaf?” I ask out loud.  It may seem a silly question, but seeing this perfectly formed loaf brought out on a platter is unexpected for sure.  “Well, yes, we eat meatloaf, why not?” Leonor asks laughing, “We eat meatballs too” she adds.  Tonya is laughing at my comments.  I am hungry, so yes, even a surprising meatloaf looks good to me now…especially a Mexican take on an American classic.  Leonor instructs her maid to bring out ‘hongos’. I cringe.  I know what those are; mushrooms. Leonor offers me a helping of hongos.  I politely refuse and Tonya tells Leonor that this is one thing I do not eat. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing” Leonor says, “Just try one”.  I oblige.  It tastes like nothing covered in a luscious, creamy sauce. “Very nice sauce” I reply.  The meatloaf was quite tasty, and the carrots kept me returning for more.  It was a very hearty meal and a great welcome into her home.

Mushrooms get Leonor off on a roll.  She starts telling a story of some Russian musicians who play for the Philharmonic who live in the town below, and how in the rainy season they scour the mountains of Guanajuato in search of wild mushrooms.  We sit at the table for quite a while and talk about all sorts of things.  It is always great to be with Leonor, because she always has something to say or a story to tell.  She has the floor, and she leads us on what will be a journey of some amazing tales.  There is quite a bit of time discussing some of Mexico’s greatest artists and the gossip that goes around in this circle.  Both Tonya and Leonor have many of the same acquaintances and collaborate on what they have each seen and heard about these famous folks.  The art crowd were regulars in the circle Leonor and her husband moved in.  Again, ask about any particular writer, painter or key social figure since the 40’s, and assuredly you will learn something you never could have guessed form Leonor.

Her husband appears in most of her exploits.  I can’t resist, so I ask her about her husband.  How he was, what his personality was like, what made him laugh and how he related to others?  She lights up and says, “Wonderful.  He was so charming to men and women alike.  I often wonder where he learned his charm from.  Surely, he had to have met someone or something in his childhood inspired him.  You know, he never told the whole story about anything.  He liked to keep you guessing and wondering.” She recalls.

“Even you? He would keep you guessing…”

“Yes, even me.  He would tell you half the story to keep you intrigued.  Never the whole thing, something was always missing so you had to try and fill in the missing parts which he would not tell of”.  She admits that not everyone ‘got’ him though, as his humor could be very dark at times, and very dry.  He liked to wind people up.  Leonor told us about how they met and a brief history in between, and then the sad ending of how Manuel became ill and died.  "I think he gave up..." she said relating to his illness.  He was a very active, hands-on kind of man and at 86 he was not able to live the life he wanted to.  He had begun to lose his sight and cancer had rendered him weak, "I think he let go.  He could not move as freely anymore and could not do the things he loved..."  She misses him dearly, it is evident in everything she does and says.

(...continued)

My First Quake

From the first day I moved to Mexico I knew there was one fear that sooner or later I would have to face.  It was not ‘if’, but truly when.  I knew that at some point, I would have to take part in my first earthquake.  Living in Mexico City there is no way around it.

Tonya’s closest friend left in 85 in the aftermath of the massive quake that shook the city.  It is said to have been the most destructive one in the western hemisphere in the 20^th century.  That was almost 30 years ago, and it was time for another to shake the city.

We had errands to run today.  We were meeting a friend in, and then getting groceries and then other assorted domestic duties.  After breakfast and taking care of things at home, we hopped in the car and informed Raul that we were on our way to meet him in Roma.  He showed up with his girlfriend and we had a brief visit over coffee and talked about some future plans.  After Raul and his girlfriend go their way, we walk back to our car talking over the week’s menu, and what we have to get at the grocery store.   This is always a big thing for us…because Tonya likes to try out new recipes and they always bring about great anticipation.  Having said that, her Asian salad she was planning tonight did not register too high on my thrill list.  It doesn’t matter, the time to sit and dine and talk is always something we look forward to.

We get back in late afternoon and lunch was long forgotten (but not by my stomach).  After walking the dogs and unpacking everything, it is time for coffee and internet browsing.  This too, is a daily routine.  Time to catch up via the internet and to read a bit.

I have been working on a music project and it is taking quite some time.  When Tonya starts to prep for dinner, I retreat to another room, start up the other computer and prepare to stare at the screen until my eyes and hurt and my hearing goes numb from editing and mixing.  This thing up my sleeve is quite a big deal to me, and so I am always ready to get in and get to work.

7pm is tequila time.  When I am not involved in my project, I like to stand in the kitchen and talk with Tonya while she works.  We both have become very attached to this evening routine.  It is nice to sample and discover new tequilas, and just talk about whatever we felt like after doing whatever was done during the day.  It is also a great time to hype the night’s planned viewing too.  After a year and a half, we have both come to prefer white tequilas too.  However, since I am in the middle of my project, we pour our glasses, clank them together and have a mutual sip.  She gets back to work and I go to the other end of the house.

Tonight, I had been really involved, because I had left quite a bit of tequila in my glass.  She calls out to tell me that things were winding down, and we would be ready to eat shortly.  I stand up, shut everything down and walk into the dining room, swigging down what is left of my tequila.  There was no lunch, so I was more than ready to eat.  I walk into the ‘TV room’ to check on the time of the Republican debates tonight.  As I step over Sunny, who conveniently sprawled out over prime floor space, I feel a bit woozy.    I reach for the TV and feel the room moving.  I think to myself that tonight, the tequila got the best of me, and went straight to work on my empty stomach.  I stand up to stop the room from moving, but in my stillness I realize it is not the tequila, it is the whole house.

This is it!  This is what I have feared the whole time I have been here and now it’s paying me a visit even before my dinner.  I stand still, legs apart and I look around.  I wonder why the dogs aren’t doing anything.  Aren’t they supposed to be hypersensitive to this stuff? I always thought that they would be my early warning system.  Obviously Sunny could care less, because I had to step over him and still am standing over him.  I look to the door and eye up my getaway.  I yell out to Tonya, who is in the kitchen, “Hey!  Do you feel that…”

‘It’s big.  This is not good!” she yells back, “It’s strong”

 I look around to make sure everything is OK and to see what is and isn’t moving.  Then I think about filming it.  I turn to look across the room at my desk, where my camera is.  Instead of running out of the house, I get to the desk and grab my camera.  I hastily switch it to movie mode, put it on the coffee table and let it roll.  Tonya comes into the TV room with eyes as huge as eggs, of course, I am sure I look quite stellar too.

The shaking stopped enough to walk, and Tonya comes into the room where I am standing, “Dude, did you feel that!” she says quite excited.  Yes, I did.  How could I not?  Now that the floor has stopped moving my insides start.  I suppose it is the rush of adrenaline, fear and the equilibrium, but the magic cocktail of chemicals suddenly shoots through my system and I feel incredibly nauseous.  It leaves as quickly as it hits.  We both stand in disbelief and shoot back and forth the obvious statements of what just happened. 

“The whole kitchen floor was moving.  It was rolling.  There was one tile in front of me that was bending and it looked like it was going to pop!”  Tonya says as she makes a waving motion with her hands.  We laugh about her predicament in the kitchen for a moment and then I realize that Raul is downtown, the worst part of the city to be in when the earth shakes.  I try dialing several times but the coverage is down-obviously because everyone is trying to do the same.  I look at the dogs and they are still lying there disinterested, except for Winston who is a bit perturbed, but it could be from all our excitement.

(I managed to get the final seconds below)

Well, it is time to eat, so we sit at the table and turn on the radio to hear some news.  We talk the brief moment through and through, and laugh about our reactions.  We also wonder why there is no one talking about it on the radio.  Obviously, it is not as bad as the last ‘big one’, and with no chatter going out over the airwaves, we deduct that there is no major damage.  As for the dinner, it rates low on the enjoyment scale.  It is easily overshadowed by the thrill of what just happened.  The phone rings.  Tonya answers it and starts chatting away in excitement.  It is the landlady, she is calling to see if we felt it and to see if anything happened.  Later, Tonya would talk with her again, and she told her version of the events;

She had been lying in her bed reading.  According to second hand reports, it was a suspenseful book, because Leonor said she was on edge. “As I was reading, I had the strange feeling that someone had gotten on the bed with me” she tells Tonya.  “I sit up and look around, and I didn’t see anyone…but I felt something.”

“Maybe it was a ghost?” Tonya asks.

Leonor shoots back with a stoic tone, “I am not afraid of ghosts.  I am afraid of someone getting into my bed with me!”  Anyway, Leonor reaffirms to Tonya that her house is without ghosts.  She continues on and says, ‘Then I realize that no one is in my bed, but my whole bed is moving.  The whole floor is moving.  It is an earthquake!”  She sprung out of bed and prepared to make her way out.  She too, told of how her floor was like an ocean of waves all around her.

As the buzz is wearing off, I realize I can text Raul, so I do.  A few seconds later my phone makes its dinging sound and Raul writes back that all is OK, but that he ran out of his building ‘quasi-nude’.  I decide to try and call him again, and he picks up almost immediately. “Dude!  Did you guys feel that?” he says thrilled.

“Yeah dude!  You OK?  Your place OK?”  I answer back.

“Dude, it was crazy.  I could hear a grinding sound, like rocks grinding together…”

“No way!”  I relay my info back to Tonya who is sitting by listening to see what is happening.

Raul continues with his side of the story, “It was weird man. I feel kind of strange and hear this grinding sound.  The whole room is moving.  I looked at my floors, and they were twisting and turning…I thought some of the planks were going to pop out.  I have never seen that happen before…” he explains the effect on his wood floors. “I dropped my tools and bolted down the stairs.  Dude, everyone fled the building and was standing in the streets.  I got a call from my girlfriend, she was checking to see if I was OK.  As I was standing in the street talking to her, I suddenly felt really sick…” he says laughing.

“No way dude!  I did too!” I shoot back.  Tonya shakes her head and says that everyone kind of gets that after a quake.

“It’s weird, no?  Anyway, everything is cool here dude.  Thanks for calling and checking on me though”

“You said you were ‘quasi-nude’, what were you doing, taking a shower?”

Raul laughs, “No dude.  I was actually working on a lamp.  I was alone and taking it easy, and just doing it in my underwear”.  Good, now the story is clear.  He would not have been the only guy standing in the streets in his underpants at this very moment.  I am glad to hear he’s OK, and that in his area there was no real damage. 

I look up some earthquake site on the net.  It has a new entry which just came in regarding the stats of the quake.  It was a 6.7 and it was on the western side of Mexico in Guerrero.  Odd, because the last major quake in 85 was from out in the Pacific, but caused so much damage here.  I read aloud all I can to Tonya, who is sitting smoking in anxiety across the room.

I am glad to know it was not bad. It shook the city, it made the news, and there were only 2 reported casualties in the countryside, one from a falling rock.  I was thrilled and scared but happy it was not a catastrophe.  I immediately felt somewhat relieved knowing that this fear which has hung over my shoulder for so long had finally decided to manifest itself, and we made it through OK.  Tonight also made me thankful that we live in the part of the city that we do, and not in the danger zone.  Now, I make my way over to the TV and turn on the debate.  We’ve lost 20 minutes and I can’t wait to see what they’ll say tonight!

The Man Who Didn't Talk

I was briefed before our visit to Los Angeles that Tonya’s childhood friend’s husband didn’t really talk much.  If I thought her friend’s husband who fought in Vietnam was weird, this guy is supposed to be on par or even up the ante a bit.

“How is he weird?” I asked. “He doesn’t talk.  He sits there” Tonya had simply replied.

I soon found out differently.

On our first night, the women went out to smoke and I am left with the fabled guy who does not speak.  Amazingly, he immediately asks me if I was interested in going to the Los Angeles car show on Wednesday with him and his Finnish friend.  I politely declined because I had a pre-arranged meeting taking place already.  We then talked about our feelings towards Mexico, and I was quite amused by the way he said “Metsico”.   I thought it was a one off, but no-he says “Metsico” every time he refers to the land south of the border.  I also found out that we share a lot of the same views, even though his wife is from Mexico.

While out shopping today, I was speaking with his wife about records.  She informed me that her husband used to work for a printing company in Los Angeles that made album covers.  I thought this was fantastic.  I was sitting in the passenger seat as we drove to dinner later that night, and I thought it was a perfect time to try to make to man who didn’t talk to talk again.  “I heard you used to print album covers” I said.  It was the key that unlocked the ensuing conversation.  He nodded his head, “Ooooh yeah.  I printed lots of album covers, almost anyone you can think of.  I did loads of stuff for Atlantic Records and A&M” he said.

I thought of those labels, and the first band that came to mind on Atlantic was Led Zeppelin, so I thought it was worth a shot, “Yeah, so-did you do led Zeppelin’s ‘Houses of the Holy?”.  He stared ahead at the road and then simply said, “Nah, didn’t do any Led Zeppelin.  I don’t recall that album”

He tells me that he kept prints of all the jackets he had worked on and only recently finally disposed of them.  He then suddenly recalls a few favorites; “There was this one album Tom Scott did, where we had this train coming out of a guy’s zipper.  Thought that was pretty cool.  Someone at the label decided it was too risqué, so we had to switch that up a bit.  I kept it though, because I always thought that if one of these covers would be worth something, it would be that one”   he looks like a guy who would have done something like this.  He’s older, in his 60’s and has long white hair that he pulls back into a ponytail.  He’s got a goatee, and is indigenous, as he says, “One of the few people in LA that was actually born here”   For a very long time he kept the proof for Cher’s ‘Take Me Home’ album. “You know that one where she only had on this gold stuff over her chest…”

“Yeah, yeah, with the big gold headdress on?”

‘Yeah, that’s the one.  Well, I thought it looked great, but what you see is not what it was.  We had to retouch it all up because the label thought you could see too much…but that was a good one too!”

I am enjoying this.  He is really letting go, and letting the tales roll.  For the most part, it was like a question and answer type thing.  However, certain questions would really get a lot of info.  Sometimes a question would get a simple, “Nah, I didn’t do any of them”.  He was quite a specialist in actuality.  In the heyday of music, he worked for the most renowned color house in Los Angeles.  He tells that there were about 7 or 8 places that did this kind of work, but the one he worked for was known for their attention to detail, and thus, they were expensive.  He went on quite a while describing what the job entails and how much he hates Photoshop, and how computers killed the industry.  He spent many long hours hovered over album artwork with a magnifying glass and an X-acto knife, scraping dots off film.  He looks at the taillights of the car in front of us as we sit in traffic, “See…say someone wanted that red.  I’d say it’d be about 20% magenta, with about a 60% yellow dialed in just about 2% black” I was impressed.  His specialty was retouching and color matching.  He loved his work.  I asked if he got to meet any of the artists from the album jackets he had worked on; it turns out, only a few.

“There was this record we did of Olivia Newton-John, where she is coming up out of the water and all the water is dripping off her.  Anyway, she came in one day and wanted to meet me.  She was thrilled that I done such a good job and making her look good, getting rid of all her pimples and stuff in the photograph”

“I did a lot of Elton John stuff, but never met him.  I did meet Bernie Taupin though.  You know he used to be a printer before he was a lyricist.  Because he had experience, he was always sent over to proof everything and he hated it. Yeah, so I dealt with him a few times’.  This is all so fascinating to me, but I am curious about how big of a music fan he was.  I ask him who his favorites were.  He spends some time thinking about it and says a few names, “The Eagles.  I always like the Eagles.  We did all of their albums.  They always had good artwork. Creedence Clearwater Revival too, I liked them” I tell him a story of a childhood memory I have of Creedence and their ‘Cosmo’s Factory’ album.  IN return, he shakes his head slightly, “Nah, don’t know that one.  When their lead singer did his solo album, I did that one though” He smiles a huge smile and stares off over the traffic ahead of us, “Man.  Linda Ronstadt.  I used to love Linda Ronstadt.  My kids tell me that when they go on long trips in the car that it just doesn’t seem right unless they hear some old corny Linda Ronstadt tune.  Yeah, I really liked Linda…”

“You know, I did that Neil Diamond album ‘Hot August Night’.  I never met him, but I was at one of those shows at The Greek Theater where they recorded the concerts.  He was great…” he says as he reminisces, ‘You know, but after you listen to five or six of his albums, you realize they are all the same’ he says as he laughs.  You should have seen my record collection.  It wasn’t any good.  I had all these records given to me from bands no one would listen to.  Black Oak Arkansas...” he starts laughing and shaking his head again, “…never liked them and had all their albums.  They would always give me their albums!”

According to what I was being told, the real money in album art was when an artist hit it big.  It was then that they would have to send film of the artwork to whatever country would then want to print the LP.  He was also responsible of doing all the ad work too.  The company figured that whoever did the artwork for the album would be the very same guy responsible for making sure all the film, colors and resolution was correct for every place the ad would run-whether it was magazine, newspapers, poster etc.  It turns out that one of the biggies was The Who’s ‘Tommy’.  “Remember that one?   Man, I hated Tommy!  Every day I went to work there was another ad campaign running somewhere and more artwork to be done.  It was ‘Tommy’ everyday for months and months.  I hated that record”

“Remember that guy from England…man, what was his name?  His big breakthrough record…he was wearing a red satin suit on it.  Man, the company was so busy with that guy…what was his name?”  He tries to remember.  I ask if he was rock, pop, soul, anything to jar his memory, but he still can’t recall. “Anyway, he was supposed to be a really big deal, but after that one album, he was never heard of again.”  He keeps commenting on the guy’s satin suit, and how hard it was to retouch the photograph.  I can’t recall any early 70’s album of a guy from England in a red satin suit that was a huge hit, but I do recall one with a guy in pink satin, “Was it Peter Frampton?”

“Yeah man! That was him!  Peter Frampton!” he says out loud and starts laughing. ‘I’ll never forget that record.  We had just hired a new printer.  He was actually the driver for the company, but he had gotten pulled in to start helping out because we were so busy.  He had no clue about anything, absolutely no experience.  The boss comes over to check the artwork and calls the new kid over to look it over too, ‘What do you think?’ the boss asks the kid.  I sat there watching them both, wondering what this kid could possibly have to say.  He looked for a minute or so and then looked to the boss, ‘I’d do him!’  Man!  We laughed so hard-that was great, ‘I’d do him’”

My mind is racing, trying to match up artists I knew from Atlantic and A&M. “well, working for A&M, you had to have done some Herb Alpert, right?” he did, but he tells the story of how they only did the re-issues because the Tijuana Brass didn’t originally record for A&M.  He did think that Alpert and Moss had a stellar label though. I rattle off more to see what big records he’d done.  Turns out he has done loads, all of Yes, The Cars, Fleetwood Mac, Blondie, and more.  He tells of different labels and how they used to work. MCA would only send over ‘big’ artists.  All of their jazz roster and country stars would get the cheap treatment.  The talk of country reminds him of Eddie Rabbit. “I got bitched out by Eddie Rabbit once.  I don’t remember what album it was, but I worked really hard on it to get rid of all his acne scars.  Eddie Rabbit was really pock marked.  Anyway, when he saw the final proof he was so angry that he came to the office and wanted to know who did the retouching.  He bitched me out saying that I had cleaned him up so much that it didn’t even look like him.  That was the first time I had to go back and add in acne and rough someone up a bit”

“Remember that album of Carly Simon’s where she was on her knees…?’ Yes.  I know that one very well.  ‘Playing Possum’ has got to be one of those albums whose image is burned deep into your brain as a young teenage male.  How could any guy look at that record and not have 1,000 fantasies started immediately.  I let him know that I know exactly which one he is speaking about. “That’s the one.  You know, that was actually a full color thing.  We played around with it and decided to shift the colors so that the image was sort of this sepia toned thing. Man. That went over huge.  Do you realize how many people wanted to use that effect for their album after we’d done that one?”

Our trip to dinner takes almost an hour.  One of the freeways here is closed, so traffic is horrendous.  He had said it would be.  Personally, I am grateful.  I am thrilled to have sat and heard so much about some of these albums and artists I loved, and to be riding shotgun with the dude who had his hand in these famous records.  I understand why he hates computers and Photoshop.  Hearing him go into the minutest details of what was involved and how they did this and that was fascinating and sad at the same time.  Album artwork was an art form; there is no doubt about it.  That is one of the things that is missing from music these days.  He worked in the printing business for over 45 years, and was in the think of it in music’s heyday.  He tells stories of how the other color houses in Los Angeles tried to lure him away.  He says he misses the prima donna aspect of his work.  He was good, and knows it.  He shakes his head as he tells how art departments now do everything half-assed, that artwork for music is a disgrace now.  He’d go back to work in a split second if he could, but admits that that type of handiwork is long gone.  Everything is computerized now and the real talent and technical aspect of retouching, adjusting color and manipulation is long gone.

“You know what I really like?  Fats Waller.  I had gotten an old 78 from my parents of a Fats Waller album.  It was like 7 discs in a box, with one song on each side. Man…he was great.  He did this one song called ‘Your Big Feets”.  I love that song” and he starts in to singing this song he is so fond of.

I sat and watched and smiled. This is the best ride to dinner I have ever had.

Three Times A Day

Certain things we are told growing up to do three times a day, I completely agree with.  As a grown up, some of the things I encounter on a daily regime, I am not too sure about.  There is an alleyway near where we live which is used for a myriad of things.  As one can easily imagine, it is layered in graffiti, filled with trash and broken glass, with its most basic use is for people going to and fro, amidst the typical filth and debris you come to expect living in Mexico City.  We use the alley daily, as a means for quick access to the next neighborhood. 

Likewise, in our constant usage, we have become familiar with others who use this alleyway on a daily basis-albeit, or their own very personal reasons.  Three characters are a given, each doing his thing, at least once a day, everyday.  The trash man, the pooper and the doper.

It is customary here to pay for everything.  Living may be seen as cheap, but when you realize how you get nickled and dimed to death, you come to realize that what you save in some areas, you spend in the most stupidest ways paying people off…like the trash man.  The trash man gets paid by the city, but ironically enough, he won’t pick up your trash if you don’t pay him too.  At first, it may not seem so obvious, but if you do not put change in his hand, you will not see your trash disappear.  Our trash man is not exception.

Initially he seemed very friendly and talkative.  He would ring the bell and ask if we had any trash to take.  He would also ring the bell and ask for his ‘tip’.  If we happened to be changeless at the time, he would smile and walk away and leave our trash until he got his tip.  Fair enough.  We would sit on our trash until we felt like giving him his tip.  When the change flows, the trash goes.

One day I stepped out with the dogs and saw the trash man walking into the alley.  I stood and watched, telling myself that he was not really going to do what I thought he would.  He was picking up the trash, taking it into the alley, ripping the bags open and dumping the trash.  Depending on what kind of trash it was, he may even start a fire in the alley to burn it off. Now I am not a Mexican, and I do not have the ‘anything goes, manana, manana’ attitude, so I found this intolerable.  I was so mad and in a state of disbelief to think this chump is taking peoples trash and just basically dumping it behind their homes, then stands smiling with his hands outstretched, asking for a tip.  It re-enforced the notion I was already building of the people here; as a rule, they are very clean…they just throw their trash and debris anywhere else but in their yard or home.  The trash man is a perfect example.  I tell Tonya what I just witnessed and she can’t believe it.  A few days later, she gets her own chance to see him lugging bags into the alley, and dumping the contents into a huge heap.  As the bits of trash were falling out, the decision was made that from this instant, no more change would ever transfer from our hands to his. 

Now, we just wait to hear the daily ringing of the bell that tells the street that the roving trash truck is here. Yes-we still have to tip too.

As with any secluded space, some prefer to use it for nefarious activities, such as drinking and smoking dope.  Just the other day, the cops were swarming on the street, man handling some young kid who was casually slopping around in a haze from his recently finished smoke-out in the alley.  Though, not a daily occurrence, it is multiple times a week that we walk through a haze of pot smoke as we travel through the alley.  After a few passes at a certain time of day, we began to recognize a familiar face; The Doper.

The doper works nearby and everyday at break time, he goes to the alley to do more than snack.  He is easy to spot…but usually you can smell his presence before seeing him.  He sits on an old log and smokes his dope. Everyday it’s the same.  For him, it is like he is wearing a uniform.  He wears a red ski-vest and a white visor cap, and big giant sunglasses to hide his eyes. He is a dark guy, very dark.  He has no front teeth, on the top or bottom.  He’s young-ish, and medium build.  He has a very deep voice, and usually slurs his words when he speaks.    

At first, he would sit very still (in a cloud of smoke) and did not move as we approached.  It was like he thought by being completely still, we would not recognize the smell, the smoke, or even him sitting on the old log.  After several chance meetings, we exchanged the ever-so slight nod to one another.  Knowing that I had gained his confidence, I would then pass by and wave, or does a combo nod-cum-salute type gesture.  One day, I started to point at him and move my thumb, like the dad making the ol’ pistol move.  I hesitated.  My own paranoia caused me to think, ‘What if he is linked to the cartels, and me doing this simple gesture he takes great offense to and sees it as a death threat?’  So, with hand outstretched and fingers ready to be cocked, I just made an awkward, arthritic move, and decided to pull back on the gunslinger greeting.  We see each other so much now, that we actually exchange verbal greetings.  I suppose, when he doesn’t want a ‘buzz kill’ he just nods and doesn’t spoil the moment.  I know everything is ok, when his dark face cracks a grin, and the white teeth blatantly point out what is missing, as he smiles and growls his greetings.  Once in a great while, the doper even attempts to raise his hand to acknowledge us.

Bums like dark, private places too.  Our most common friend in the alley is the old crazy guy.  Neighbors say that this old fella has been using this alley as his hangout for years.  He used to have another bum who he’d bum around with, but his buddy passed away and left him desolate and shattered.  I have no idea what his name is, but just call him ‘pasale’ because that is what he utters countless times as you walk by. (Pasale is a friendly way to tell someone that it is ok to pass).  I call him ‘Pasale’, but in truth, he is the pooper.

Pasale is a regular fixture in this area.  He’s lost his mind, and wonders the streets in his ill fitting clothes, a worn and frayed jacket, several times too big for him, and an old dirty straw hat with holes in it.  Some days, when he is ‘dressed up’, he buttons what buttons are left on the jacket.  Pasale is usually found in the alley with a handmade broom, cobbled together from trash, and sweeping the dirt path in the alley way.  I am not really sure what it accomplishes.  It just seems he clears the path, and pushes all the trash the trash man has dumped form side to side.  You can see when Pasale really cleans though, because the berms of trash are noticeably higher.  Every time we pass, he mumbles incoherently, steps aside, bobs his head up and down and says, “pasale, pasale, pasale”.

Sometimes Pasale is seen with a huge bag of trash, he goes down the pathway and fills the bag.  I have no idea what he does with it…but have noticed large trash bags filled to the brim, piled nicely on the already mounting mounds of trash.  Personally, I think this is what Pasale does to keep busy. He tends to the trashy alleyway.

The downside is, all this time cleaning and moving trash from one side of the path to the other, one has no time to find a restroom.  Pasale likes to clean up, but he also has no problem of dropping his pants and leaving big piles of poop there too.  One day, while walking the dogs, Tonya and I both reeled in horror at the site of a very human looking pile of messy poop. We looked at one another and asked the same question, “Is that from a person?’.  The more we passed through, we began to notice these piles here and there.  One day, Pasale had been seen walking away and as we walked down the alley, the smell of fresh poop was very near a fresh pile.  We could only assume…

I mentioned Pasale to the neighbor across the street.  He filled me in on the history of Pasale, and how everyone knows him.  He also added that it is Pasale who does his poops in the alley. “Oh yeah, it is him.  One day I walked out of the house on my way to school.  I turned to walk down the alley, and as I looked up, I saw him squatting with his pants around his ankles.  There is no doubt about what he was doing, but I didn’t actually see the process.  I turned immediately and walked the other way…”  My neighbor’s comments made it painfully obvious. Pasale was no longer the suspected pooper, he is the pooper.  Things must be going good for him though, as the other day we noticed a fresh pile, complete with a bit of used toilet paper.  I suppose we should be happy he is using better hygiene now.

While sitting in traffic a week or so ago, Tonya and I spotted Pasale walking down the street.  We sat at the red light, and as he got closer, he crossed in front of us.  As he neared the car, he recognized me.  He took his ratty hat off, smiled and issued a bonus greeting as he waved, “Buenos Dias!”.  He was excited.  I smiled back and waved.  I then realized that everyone standing at this intersection was witnessing the exchange between the guero and the pooper. Tonya laughed, she commented on how excited Pasale was.  “I can’t believe he noticed you in the car!  Wow, you made his day.  You have a new friend now…I think it is sweet”, she said while smiling.  We smiled at Pasale as he wobbled down the road on his way to who knows where.

No doubt, it is quite amusing of the acquaintances you can make here in this city, just from going about your daily routines.

Coffee, a cruise and the most beautiful breasts.

Monica is a busy lady, especially if you go by her appointment book that is lying open on the table.  She had recently gotten back form a cruise around the Mediterranean and had been wanting to sit, chat and catch up.

We were late though.  Half an hour before we are due to meet, I decided to do the typical guy routine of the three S’s.  This set us back about five minutes, however, it did illicit a comment from Monica that I was nice and clean, and making progress in being presentable.  I graciously accepted the compliment, but still felt stupid because of the two festering pimples that decided to suddenly show up on my face. I may be clean shaven, but I feel like the two embryonic pimples are flashing neon red, screaming “Look!  He’s got pimples!”

Wasting no time, I ask Monica about her trip.  She starts off telling us how she had seen some wonderful kilims in Turkey…but they were too expensive.  $18,000 to be exact.  “Well, the food must have been good though” I say to highlight the good parts of her journey. “I don’t know.  I think I must have been eating at the wrong restaurants.  I did not enjoy any of the food I had in Turkey” she says quite deadpan.  Other than bad food and expensive rugs, she did say she totally enjoyed Istanbul and the other places she visited.  She was quite disturbed by the amount of women she saw wearing burkas though.

“The best food was in Italy” she says as she rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair.  She rolls out an instance where she and her son ate and the food was so good that as soon as her son finished his plate, he ordered a second of the exact same thing, “Yes…it is that good!” she says laughing.

We had come for coffee and to chat, hearing all about her trip.  She happily tells us about how handsome the Italian guys are and how she had quite a crush on the manager of a small hotel she stayed at.  It was all for naught, when she tells us the following, “Every night I would go to the bar and they would laugh at me.  I would sit and look at all the people and talk to everyone…and I would order a glass of milk”.  We laughed out loud.  There is a method to her madness though.  She says that she was eating so much that she decided not to eat in the evening.  Instead, she would go to the bar and drink milk, then go to her room and use the rest of the milk for her cereal.  She acted out how pathetic of a scenario it was, as she slouches down in her chair and slowly acts like she’s spooning cereal into her mouth.

I like Monica.  She is a good natured lady and always seems like she is up for a laugh.  She likes to laugh at things you shouldn’t, so that immediately appealed to me.  I enjoy hearing about the trip. I really enjoy hearing her tips of what cruise lines to take and to “always ask if it is a new ship”.  I ask why and she immediately answers, “Because old ships are horrible.  They smell and they usually have horrible staff”

Monica spins the tales of her trip, but stops again to ask the question, ‘Why do those women there want to dress like that.  It’s horrible the way they are treated’.  She then changes the conversation to tell a wild tale of her experience working for the Iraqi Embassy.

Most important parts first; food.  Monica said that the Ambassador and his wife were very nice, and they would invite her to lunch almost every day at their own residence, “I was the only one at the Embassy that they would invite to lunch” she reiterates with great pride.  She rolls her eyes in ecstasy and leans back in her chair and she described how well the wife cooked and how they ate like kings. “I really like their food, very much…but I did not know that Iraqis ate with their hands like the Africans did!”  We laugh as she tells how she felt a bit embarrassed by the ordeal, but said she respected the way they ate, but said she could not eat with her hands, and asked to be allowed to use a fork when they dined.

She told us of how the visiting dignitaries form other Arab countries would come to visit.  “Whenever the people would come from Saudi Arabia, or Iran or any of those Arab countries, the Ambassador would always pull me aside and ask me to go upstairs and read.  They did not want the other dignitaries to see a woman near the Ambassador” she said.  She admitted that he always would have magazines and books for her upstairs, and was very courteous to her and apologized for having to ask her to leave.  She shakes her head as she says, “You know the worst of those Arab people?  The ones from Saudi Arabia.  They are animals! The Saudis are the worst.”

We did not expect this; but Monica comments about how the Ambassador and his wife always asked her to sleep ‘between them’.  I glossed over it, thinking it was a simple mistake in her English.  It would prove to be the correct usage, as we learned when she told the story of the Cadillac.

Monica says that the Ambassador wanted a Cadillac, and it was her job to find him one. “This was a time when they did not sell Cadillacs here” she starts off, “so I had to find him one.  I found him one in Houston, and told him that someone would have to go get the car and drive it back to Mexico.”  The Ambassador was ever so grateful for Monica’s hard work that he suggested that he and his wife and Monica all go to Houston to get the car and drive it back.  Monica was thrilled, and thought the trip would be fun, so she agreed.  Of course, it makes perfect sense she goes because the Ambassador did not drive.

They all go to Houston and according to her, it was a blast.  They got the car and he was very impressed.  One of the first things he insisted on was being driven around, like a typical big shot. “It was such a nice car…I loved driving it, it was solo nice” Monica says.  As they were driving around Houston, the Ambassador says that they should celebrate by all going shopping.  He asked Monica if she knew where to shop in this city, she smiles a big smile, “Of course I knew where to shop- THE GALLERIA!” she says laughing.  She then tells how she immediately drove to the Galleria.  The Ambassador told Monica and his wife to go wherever they wanted and to buy whatever they wanted.  She laughs as she tells how she and the wife had a heyday, holding up dresses, asking one another for advice and buying everything in sight. ‘It was a very good day” Monica says in all seriousness.

After having such a fun filled day, they all retire back to the fancy hotel they are staying at.  They have dinner and as they go back to their rooms and the Ambassador ask Monica if she would like to come ‘sleep between them’.  She says she is a bit embarrassed, and politely declines, citing the early trip and long drive they faced tomorrow.  He understood, and they said goodnight.

They drove from Houston to Mexico City.  According to Monica, the trip was a breeze in the big brand new Cadillac.  Obviously, the Ambassador loved riding in the car too, and somewhere in the middle of nowhere, he told Monica to drive faster.  “No, you cannot drive as fast as you like in Texas!  They have laws.  We will get stopped” she told the Ambassador.  Hogwash!  He tells her to step on it.  The Iraqi government will pick up the tab if there is any trouble.  She laughs as she says, ‘I do not know where it was, but yes- deputy did pull us over.  We had to go in front of a judge in some small town and pay the fine.  He did not know what was going on with these Arabs and Mexicans all around” and she laughs it off and continues the tale.

They drove quite a while and decided to stop in Saltillo.  Monica says they were quite tired, but were obviously treated to the best that money could buy, thanks to the Iraqi Saddam Hussein.  As they retreated to their rooms, the Ambassador and his wife asked one more time if she would like to come sleep with them, “I don’t know why he always asked!  I think because they are so used to having so many wives over there, that here they think they can do the same”  This time Monica feels a bit uneasy, because they have loads more Mexican bodyguards since they are back in Mexico.  She tells the Ambassador that there are so many guards, that he himself would be the focus of a huge scandal if he is seen going into a room with a Mexican woman.  He agrees, and once again they say their goodnights.  Monica says she makes a point that the bodyguards see her retreat back to her room alone. “Can you imagine the trouble…?” she says as she and Tonya gossip about the way Mexicans love to over-dramatize everything. 

She gets back to her room, gets in bed and starts watching TV.  She says a while later, a knock comes at the door.  It is quite late, and she can’t imagine who it is.  She goes to the door and slowly opens it.  The Ambassador’s wife is standing there.  She asks to come in, and Monica obliges.  A bit concerned, Monica asks f everything is OK.  The wife reassures her that everything is fine, but asks if she could stay with Monica for a while and talk.  Monica says that over the time she worked for the Embassy, she and the wife became quite close.  After enough girl talk, the wife asks Monica if she would like to go back and sleep with them.  Feeling more at ease with the wife, Monica politely declines in a gentle manner, as to not offend.  The wife still seems a bit hurt by the constant refusal.  Monica assures her it is not for lack of beauty, but because she just doesn’t do those sort of things.

The wife says she understand and gets up to leave.  She says Monica’s name, to draw her full attention.  Monica looks up and the wife opens her gown to reveal her naked body.  Monica acts out the scene, by motioning standing up and stretching her arms wide open.  “Look at my breasts!  Do you like them?”  The wife asks Monica.  Monica hangs her head as if to catch her breath.  She rises back up and looks us in the eye and says, “They were gorgeous.  Her breasts were the most beauuuutiful I have ever seen.  They were perfect!” she says as we start laughing.  She says the wife tells her to touch them, to see how firm and nice they were.  Monica said she did, and was just amazed at the perfection, “Oh, she had such a wonderful body.  Truly beautiful.” She says without shame.  She then leans in as to tell us a big secret, “You know why she had those lovely breasts and such a wonderful body?  Because she had never had children”.  She then follows up with a very matter of statement that had there been any kids, her boobs would definitely not be the definition of perfection.  She then laughs as she and Tonya have a brief discussion of the effects age and children have on boobs.  Then, finishing her story, she says very plainly, “Maybe that is why they always asked people to sleep with them, because they had no children and they just thought they could live like that”.  We are all having a good laugh.  Monica is laughing quite hard too, and has proven to be quiet a good story teller.

As the laughter starts to soften, we glance at the table next to us where a woman is talking loudly and quite excited.  ‘I will eat you!  I will cover you in hot sauce and eat you up!” she is saying loudly while shaking her head.  Her legs are outstretched and her feet resting in another chair.  She is balancing her baby who is standing on her mother’s legs.  They are both laughing.  Every time the mom yells that she is going to douse the kid in hot sauce and eat her, the baby roars with laughter.  We do too.  The mother realizes that more people are laughing and turns to look at us, looking a bit embarrassed and flushed from her acting up with her child.  We smile and the ladies exchange some quick baby comments, and she goes back to the threat of cannibalism with her chubby baby.

We had come to hear all about Monica’s glamorous cruise and got so much more.  She is a good laugh.  It was fun hearing dish on all the stuff that happened while away for a month.  How and why it led to the story about the Ambassador, who knows…but it was a great laugh and a great tale.  Reminiscing about old times, she and Tonya talk about ‘old’ Mexico and certain figures that were prominent at that time.  She got quiet and told quite a lengthy tale about one such official, who decided to ransack her friends home, tie the family up take them out to the garden and hold a gun to their heads, saying that if the husband said a word about this…well, you know the rest.  They both shake their heads about the corrupt officials and how things used to be.  Personally, it appears to me nothing has changed since the ‘good ol’ days’. The only thing different now is that these ruffians carry Blackberries and iPhones along with their guns.

Oh the chores to be done.  Monica talks of how her landlord recently moved in above her, and how he purposely takes her neighbors paper.  She says she called him out on it just yesterday and the landlord stopped, look her in the eye, grabbed the paper with gusto and walked back into his apartment, “I have to move” she said, “he’s horrible.  After my vacation at the beach, I will start looking for a new place” And with that, we say our goodbyes.