30 Years in a Bowl Of Soup

This is a lunch date with one of Tonya’s old school friends.  If calculations were right, it had been over 30 years since they had seen each other.  Who knows what to expect.  All I keep hearing about this guy is that he was the class clown.  Funnily enough, we will be dining at his sister’s home, who also went to the same school, but was a year behind them.  Tonya is happy to finally catch up.

We don’t know our way around this place, so the sister gives us directions to meet her on the side of the highway.  Easy enough.  We pull up behind and see a hand wave out, so-we know we met our contact.  We follow the car out of town into the countryside.  Down some old dirt roads, and the car ahead of us pulls over and a young boy jumps out, he saunters over to the gate and opens it like it was such a huge inconvenience for him.  We follow in and the young boy closes the gate and is standing there watching the strangers pull in.  We get out of the car and meet the younger sister.  I reach out my hand to the young kid, shake hands with him and say hello.  His twin jumps out of the car and walks over to me, so I do the same.  We greet one another and go inside.

We get a brief run down of the place and watch the kids play in the yard and meet the dogs.  Our  hostess asks if we would like something to drink, “Perhaps a beer?” she asks.  “What?  You only have one beer?” I ask.  She thinks for a second and replies, “No.  I actually only have four, but you can have one…or more if you like”  She laughs at my attempt at dumb humor.  I smile and tell her I am just kidding, I’ll just have what everyone else is having.  A few minutes later the maid comes out onto the back patio with a platter and four glasses filled with orange juice.  As she is handing them out to us, a booming voice spreads over the patio.  Tonya’s old school chum is here at last, and he is making a grand entrance.

He’s tall, thin, a bit aged by the sun and a little pink.  He’s got blond hair and adjusts his cap as he says hello to us all.  He has got a firm handshake, and that is always a good sign.  He lights up when he sees Tonya and she does the same.  The hostess tells us to sit and we all do, while continuing to exchange pleasantries and Tonya and he speaking 100 mph in Spanish.  This is the class clown, this is Eric. He’s a ball of energy and is definitely charming.  He likes a good laugh too.

The maid brings out some food.  She sets down a bowl in front of each of us of some sort of orange soup. My first thought is that whatever kind of soup this is, it does not go with orange juice. I have no idea if it is hot or cold, but it looks good and I am starving.  I take a bite and it’s warm and creamy, and I am about to ask if it is squash soup when Eric says, ‘Oh-this is some great carrot soup” It was.  It was very tasty.  Eric eats like a farm hand, he cares not for any lofty mannerisms, he just leans over, grabs his spoon and gets into it, talking as he slurps and laughing when need be, all the while dipping back into the soup.

“So, Eric, what have you been doing all this time, how is everything?” Tonya asks.  No one knew that this was carte blanche to get all that has happened to him in the last 30 years to be detailed over soup.  Still, he starts and does not finish for a long while.  Its OK, it’s very entertaining.

Eric starts his story with leaving school, and the last time Tonya and he saw one another.  He went to Europe to study German.  He met an Italian girl.  His dad said you don’t study German in Italy, so you cannot stay there.  Thinking out the situation, Eric got a place in Austria and his girl was over the border in Italy. Doing this he made his dad happy and was able to see his girlfriend. ‘I didn’t study German though, I spent all my time with my girlfriend in Italy” he confessed.  He told of the time spent there and he adventures in America after he left Europe.  He returned back to Mexico City for a brief stint and then found himself in Monterrey.

“I wasn’t doing anything and I had no formal training for anything.  I had been bumming around and now I had to find a job” he said.   There was this guy who was at all the parties around town.  He made purses.  He designed and had the purses manufactured.  One day, Eric ran into the guy while out and about and the guy was bragging about how all he did was party and gets paid.  He joked to Eric, “You should come work with me!”  Of course, Eric took it serious.  He thought doing nothing and going to all the parties sounded pretty good.   He took him up on his offer, and thought that if the guy was making good money doing nothing, Eric could make more money by actually doing something in this new found venture.  He was right.  The business started booming and Eric ended up taking over the whole company. “I had no idea what I was doing.  I would see something and sketch out a few ideas, and then tell someone else to make it.  I had a whole factory making all these purses” he laughs, “and business was great!”  Of course, after a few years of purse making, he decided he had had enough.

“I still have some of those purses in my closet” his sister says

Eric sits back and puts his spoon down, “Really?  Leave them there!” and he bursts out laughing.  He shrugs his shoulders and with a mouth full of soup admits the same, “I still have loads at my house too”

His story is inter-spliced with the obvious additions of romance, which is usually a factor of someone moving from one place to another.   ‘After I left the purses, I had made some good money.  I wanted to do something different…so I bought a dump truck”  This was totally unexpected and gets a good laugh from everyone.  He realizes that he is rolling along at a quick pace and looks at us and says, ‘What is this?  Thirty years in a bowl of soup?  I am about halfway done and I have to finish my whole story by the time the soup is gone?”  We all laugh again and Eric hams it up with an exaggerated motion of spooning soup up.

“This was a huge mistake.  Every time I tried to drive this damn dump truck, I had a flat.” He starts laughing remembering the hardships, “Seriously.  I could barely go a few blocks before one of the tires blew out.  I have no idea why this kept happening, but it did.  It sucks being on the side of the road trying to change a big dump truck tire, have you ever tried?” he asks knowing that none of us have. Still, it is a funny thought.  It seems that people around town were taking notice of Eric and his bad luck dump truck, because one day as he finished up changing a tire, he was approached by a guy who had seen him around.  The stranger proposed a deal for Eric.  They were bidding on building some highways around Monterrey and Saltillo, and they needed a guy with a dump truck.  They had seen Eric and thought he would be a good candidate.  The stranger asked Eric if he knew anyone good with explosives, because they were going to be doing a lot of demolition.  “Hey man!  This was great!  Forget about driving the dump truck, I wanted to blow things up!  I said yes immediately and soon left the driving to someone else.  I started learning about explosives and we were having a ball out blowing up mountains all around Monterrey.”   He then tells some details about how they did certain things, and that he actually ended up helping to build the major highway that runs down through central Mexico, all the way into Mexico City…the very same one we drove to come down here in the first place.

Once again, after all was said and done, Eric had completed his tasks and had pockets full of money.  The road ended in Mexico City, and he found himself in his hometown again.  On a high form the huge task just finished, he and his cronies tried to get some contracts to finish up building highways the rest of the way through the country.  Times had change, and in typical Mexican fashion, no one could get on the same page.  Before too long, all hopes of building were lost and he was left wondering what to do. 

I had to ask the obvious.  With doing all the work in Monterrey and up through some of the badlands, did he run in to any troubles with the drug lords.  No, he didn’t.  “I know many of them and they know me.  We had deals and would do favors, but I never asked questions and they never bothered me.  He tells of certain areas around where the lords live and where they put their families.  No one dare bother anything in the area.  They are all untouchables-and you dare not ask questions.  You treat one another like normal people, and with plenty of respect.  Of course, when a stranger comes up to you and offers to buy your land for a few million dollars in cash, paid all in $20s, you don’t have to think too hard of how they can get that money and who is behind it.  At the time the roads were built, it was not near as out of hand as it is now.  Things were bad then, but now he says he wouldn’t take on the job because of the dangers.

With money saved up and a romance at hand, it was time to settle down and start a family.  He decided to head back into the central part of Mexico and settle down.  Mexico City was too much for him and he had enough.  “I had no idea what to do now, so I thought I would start building houses”  he laughs again at how absurd it all sounds, but it is true.  I don’t recall the exact number, but I think it is easily over 40 homes that he has built in his time here.  He says that he has just finished another large project and is actually getting into the wedding business.  “ I wouldn’t live anywhere else” he says proudly, “Anything you want to do you can do it here.  Anything you want to be” and he puffs his chest out and laughs, “I mean…look at me man!  Now weddings!”

Eric then goes off on how you meet the strangest people here…people who never could imagine meeting.  He says in their own countries and regular daily lives, many of these people would never cross paths.  They are untouchable millionaires, tycoons, entrepreneurs, producers and all sorts, but they all come here to get away from it all.  They come here to be normal people.  He laughs and says, “Yes…it is a sunny place for shady people”.  He puts his spoon down because he needs a lot of space to tell this whopper.

“Hey man, listen…this is what happens” as he spreads his arms open wide as if he is clearing the air. “I was just walking through town a while back and I hear some one call my name.  I stop to see who it is and this little guy comes running over with his hand outstretched. I didn’t recognize him” he says as he leans back in his chair as if he is recoiling. “It was this little guy, who looked all ratty. He had this haircut which was kind of like a mohawk but it wasn’t.  It made no sense, and it was long in the back. He looked like some drug addict” and he points to his bottom teeth, making his speech a bit slurred, “and he had this stupid diamond in between his two bottom teeth, right here”  He leans back and waves his hand as if something stinks.  “You wouldn’t believe this guy”  This guy says he wants him to build a house for him.  He tells him all these elaborate ideas he has and asks how much it will cost.  He says he has a friend who will help design a special ‘casita’ for his daughter too.  He quotes a price, and the guy agrees.  They set a date to start and get the property squared away. 

Eric gets a call from the future homeowner who is barking down the line all excited, “Hey Eric.  Let’s meet and discuss some plans about my special casita.  My friend is here…you know the one who is designing it.  Let’s go have some beers and go over the plans”  he said he had no idea what to expect, but gave in to the pressure and agreed to meet.  “I mean…this guy, he’s a complete mess.  He looks like he’s all strung out, his wife has left, he’s telling his sob story and now he thinks his buddy is going to design a special little home for his daughter?”    They meet up and do the civil thing; chat and drink.

After plenty of talking and drinking, the ratty guy turns to his friend and says, “Hey man, come on.  Get your pencil and paper out and show him what we’re thinking”  Eric sits back and stares at the table as if he is watching someone draw.  He slowly raises his eyes and they are bright white. “You know man, I could not believe it.  This guy pulls out some paper and starts drawing. He is going and going and it is really weird stuff” he stops and rubs his eyes, and blinks again as if trying to reconnect with reality, “I could not believe what I was seeing” and he looks at Tonya and slaps her on the arm, “I mean, this stuff was all far out and magical.  You know, he was drawing all this middle earth stuff and hobbit junk…yeah, like a hobbit home!  You know who this guy was?” he asks as he leans over the table.  “I was thinking I was drinking too much watching as this guy sketched this all out like it was nothing.  I was thinking it looked like a Yes album cover” then he leans over and tries to pop me on the arm, “Ay, cabrone, it was that Yes stuff!  This was the guy who drew all those album covers buey, This was Roger Dean sitting with me drawing up plans for this new house!”  Eric sits back and laughs raising his arms upwards like a revelation.  He pulls his sweaty cap off his head and scratches it and quickly sets the dirty hat back on his head.

“Can you believe it?  Here!  I am sitting here drinking with this guy Roger Dean!”  He goes on to tell the full story about Roger’s friend, the ratty guy.  His name is actually Mike or Michael.  He was some hotshot record producer form the 70’s.  He did a few hit records early on and he and three of his business chums decided they wanted to buy a schooner.  They all pitched in their big LA pay, and buy a big old wooden schooner, ‘Old style” Eric emphasizes.  ‘They bought this boat and decided to sail to Thailand and back to LA.  They did it four times.  Each time they did it, they loaded it up with dope!!!  Can you believe it?  Some big record producer making all this money, buying a boat and smuggling dope back from Thailand!  That’s crazy!  Anyway, the fourth time back, they got busted.  Mike lost everything, his job, his wife, his family broken up…everything.  He did jail time too.  He managed to hide a few million, and when all was said and done and he got out of jail, he came down here to get away from it all.”

This is the point he is trying to make.  You can never guess who you meet here.  It is a small town with big egos.  Everyone blends together and you rub elbows with people form all corners of the globe and form all walks of life.  More to the point, Eric’s bowl is empty.  Time is up.  He had to get us all caught up with what had transpired in 30 years by the time our appetizer was done.  “That’s it!  Thirty years.  My soup is gone!”

Recovery

I knew what I was getting in to when I agreed to go to the weekly Farmer’s Market.  Liberated retirees, hippies, drop outs, refugees, gender queers and Mexicans and all in the three ring circus of gluten free and organic products.  I don’t which is worse, geeks and freaks into technology or geeks and freaks into the environment. 

We get suckered to a table where an old lady is selling homemade marmalades, pestos and salsas.  A bald guy is buying up some salsa verde and tells us to try. We do, its great, and he tells us how he is going to prepare his pork loin with this stuff. Great, but we but some tamarind stuff and some sort of salsa made form pomegranate.  The old lady says it’s great on cheese.  Why not?  There is a lady sitting in front of the table, perhaps serving as a translator for the old lady behind the table.  We strike up a conversation and get another view of what life is like here.

We mosey on around the small enclave of tables and I see a guy who looks like a Hare Krishna drop out, shaved head with silly hair puff on the back.  He is an artisan cheese make.  He holds up half a wheel of cheese and tells some lady to touch it. She does, sticks her finger right in the center of the cheese and presses hard. I think this is gross.  No telling where those fingers have been, especially in this place!  Tonya wonders over to the cheese table and his helper asks if we would like to sample some cheese.  Tonya says yes-but she doesn’t know this guy lets strangers touch his cheese.  I refuse.

We make the rounds and buy a few pieces of bread, look at the artisan soaps, some people are dishing up tacos and sopas and spot some great looking honey.  We check the prices of some rugs and stop at a table where a lady has stitched some silly pink panther motifs on to pillowcases. Horrid.  Who would buy that crap?  However, Tonya starts chatting and ends up standing there for a while.  We see this other pillow case where she has stitched an amazing and vibrant vase of flowers. Tonya snatches it up, as well as buys a small cell phone case she made, with a church and two trees on it.  Simple, but we like it.  The ladies beside us are talking about some new cause they are signing people up for and they all wear matching baseball caps. Ugh.

On the way out we stop at a makeshift stand with dog calendars and some photos and postcards.  I have already seen this calendar elsewhere for sale around town, but we start talking to the guy manning the stand.  It is the guy who actually made all these.  He’s from Vermont.  Grey hair, glasses on head and dog by his side.  We talk shop over the photographs for a few, then get specific. “What do people do here?  What do you do here?”

“This is it!” he says.  He sells dog calendars.  By trade, he is a glass blower.  He says after 25 years he dropped out of the rat race of the East coast, and decided to stop everything and rediscover himself. “I was in a life transition” he says” I was in a state of recovery.  I wanted to get away from all the emptiness of never having enough stuff and worrying what society says and does next” he says.  I don’t show it, but inside I am cringing.  I hate this kind of talk.  It sounds a bit like indoctrination to me when I hear this stuff.  Still, the old dude is cool, so I carry on conversing.  This is all he does.  He has no real job and doesn’t work with glass anymore.  He photographs the dogs in the area and sells postcards and calendars.  He says it’s scary, because there is not a lot of money to be made from hocking calendars.  Still, he loves it and says he’s thrown himself into it headlong.  I like dogs…I love dogs.  Tonya loves dogs, so we dig where he is coming from.  We talk about our favorite lovely animals for a few minutes and Tonya wants to help him, so she buys a calendar.  My favorite photo is not in there, so I am a bit bummed.   The stranger’s conversation keeps us interested and he asks where we live.  This changes the dialogue completely.

“Wasn’t it odd moving into a world of retirees?” I ask pointedly. “How did you do it?”  He smiles and continues with the mantra of ‘recovering’, but then moves on. “I was in a life transition, so I wanted away from the speed of life.  I wanted to be around people like the retirees.  I actually liked it!  It helped me to readjust” he says laughing.  “I didn’t run from anything, or deny it.  I changed and stopped doing what I was doing in Vermont, and I wanted to leave it behind.” He says that for a while the greyhairs were a great help, “…but not so much anymore, I try to distance my self from them now” he states.  We discuss how one moves within and between the communities here, blending with the Mexicans, the retirees, and the Texans.  Everyone who lives here always makes a point to point out The Texans. I don’t tell him I am Texan, I just listen.

The Texans got the money.  The Texans have the homes.  The Texans throw the parties, but according to varying sources, The Texans drink.  They drink a lot here.  In fact, a guy just told us that the wealthy Texans buy homes on the hill and rarely venture out.  He says they have their alcohol delivered up the hill.  The downside is that because of the current bedlam which is Mexico and the state of the nation thanks to inept inexperienced moron as President, many Texans have left and had to go home to guard what is left of their money.  Now, things are changing.  Europeans and Mexicans are creeping in.  This seems to be the vortex of where all this blending is going on.  For some odd reason, this is the place to be to change, redirect, rediscover, and get lost.  As a friend said the other day, it is “A sunny place for shady people”.

He tells us how he has a Mexican girlfriend and he has moved out into the countryside, renting a place on a horse farm.  He says it’s wonderful.  “I don’t hang with the retirees and gringos so much anymore.  I have befriended Mexicans and with my girlfriend, I now move in a different circle.”  He tells us if we want to watch how all this works in full swing, to come back in February when this gay reclusive art freak finishes up his new project and opens his new museum for all to see. “He’s a freak” he says laughing, “and I don’t mean just weird, I mean he is psychedelic, like way into outer space weird”.

“Why do I wanna come and go to this opening full of art wank, art fags and weirdoes?”

“Because everyone goes.  The Mexicans, the retirees, the scenesters, everyone.  It will be a big deal”  He stops and collects his thoughts.  “You know, you would be surprised at these people here.  The retirees can be quiet surprising” he affirms.  ‘I was at this party a while back.  I would say there were 50 people there.  I don’t get high anymore, and there were two other people there who don’t either…so that left 47 people who did”

“What drinking…?” I ask

“No. getting high” he bursts out in laughter.  “I mean, we are the younger generation.  It is kind of shocking to see the retirees going at it.  I suppose we don’t think of them ding those things.  They are supposed to scold us, but man!  They go nuts!” of course, he admits drink will pour, but the main thing is these old buggers get totally plastered and even get into psychedelics.  “At this particular party, they made pot brownies.  Everyone was eating them and getting plastered.  I didn’t eat any, and neither did the other two.  We laughed at the behavior of these people though.  Even though these old people aren’t addicts, the behavior of an addict is there” I start to worry if this is going to be some kind of life counseling conversation and new age BS.  “The owner had a couple of Bassett Hounds.  One of them came walking in to the kitchen with a baggie in its mouth.  It was full of brownies!  A short while later the hostess and owner of the house comes in, blitzed of her head, and it kicks in…” he says while he adjusts his glasses. “She comes in and accuses the lady I am talking to of stealing her pot brownies, ‘Look. I had extra baggies of these brownies here, I made so many, and now one of the bags is gone…”  he shake his head and looks straight at us, ‘Can you believe it?  Just like an addict, the fear, the accusation and the paranoia.  Anyway, I tell the hostess that my friend didn’t take the bag of brownies.  She didn’t believe me, but insisted that this girl did it.  Then she went off about how now there is a criminal in the house and it will ruin the party because they are stealing her things.  She was so high.  She had no idea the dog ate them, but instead, she started to accuse others about it.”  He says that she eventually found out that the dog had eaten them, but thankfully it was only one of her dogs and not both.  She panicked and asked this guy what to do.  He laughs as he says, “I told her the dog would be OK” he makes a face, showing that he was hoping he was right, “I told her to turn the TV on, put the dog in a chair and set him in front of the screen, with the sound down”  She did, and he made it through ok.

We are all having a good laugh at the poor dog’s expense, and he acts out the dog in the chair, ‘the owner said he got a little weird.  He would look at the screen, then tense up, turn his head bear his teeth and make a groan. Then he would loosen up and watch the screen some more.  It was like he was seeing things or having flashbacks…but he worked through it and was OK”

As he is finishing up the dope party story, the lady who helped him translate the calendar happens to walk up.  She was born in Mexico City too, so she and Tonya hit it right off.  We all stand and talk as they tear down the stalls around us.  “Things are really starting to change here” he says, ‘I truly believe there is like a third culture developing here, one that understands the Gringos and is Mexican.  They can take the best from the old ways, some from the Gringos and make it fit together somehow.  It’s really great!’ he says.  No doubt, he may only sell calendars and postcards, but he loves it here and swears he would not go back.  This was truly an unexpected morning.  I knew I would see some freaks and hippies, but this guy was a very pleasant surprise.  So is the translator!  We say goodbye, but before we make off, he asks for our email addresses to be on his email list. 

We walk back down the long road into the center.  It is really hot now; the sun is at full power.  I see a beer specialty store and peep in.  Tonya buys me a Kronenbourg. That gets me excited.  We continue on and Tonya glances over her shoulder, "Look who’s behind us” she says.  I turn and it is the lady who was sitting in front of the marmalade table.  We say hello again. “Can I ask you another odd question?” I say walk side by side with her. “Sure. What?”

“Where can we get a good rotisserie chicken here” I say.  Tonya moans in embarrassment.  The lady smiles and points back to where we came from, “All the way back there, at the Happy Chicken” she says smiling and then loses herself in the crowd.  We continue to walk home and later, taking the lady's advice, we do go to Happy Chicken and it was very good.

Bad beds and Bagles

Why can’t Mexicans care about bedding?  Everywhere you go in this crazy country all they have for linens is crap, super polyester blends…in horrible patterns and colors.  Not only that, Mexicans like flat pillows.  Trying to find decent pillows is just as hard as finding quality sheets, you know, that high thread count stuff. Forget it.  If you are gonna sleep here, bank on discomfort and sheets that feel like plastic canopies. It’s gross.

Actual photo of horrid flat pillows and sheet/blanket combination; gross

We are on a fact finding mission in central Mexico.  According to the Canadian guy we sat and chatted with the other night, this is the Hamptons of Mexico!  Tonya had read a recent article which made the point; if this place has so much money and such a large expat community, why can’t the food be better than average?  Even the Canadian guy Sam (a restaurant owner) says that the people here just can’t get it right.  “Like bagels!” he says in complete frustration.  Personally, I would never expect a Mexican to do proper bagels, but I still am interested in what he has to say.  “That famous bagel place doesn’t serve bagels-they’re biscuits!” He asks me if I know this certain café in town, I shake my head left to right, accentuating the negative. “Well…they do an OK bagel, but I can’t stand the place.  Look, they have a horrible bathroom where the window opens right up onto the sidewalk. I go there and get my morning cup of coffee and a bagel, but I can’t do my morning dump man, because any noise I make is broadcast right out onto the sidewalk.  Who wants to take a dump where everyone can hear you…?”  He says quite excitedly.  He realizes Tonya is standing there and politely apologizes for talking about pooh and breakfast in the same breath, “I’m sorry.  Look, I don’t go there anymore because they don’t have good bagels and I can’t pooh.  I gave up” he says.

Sam wanted to start a microbrew, but somehow ended up opening an exotic restaurant instead.  We had no idea that Sam was the owner when we first walked in to his restaurant.  We were standing amid the dining area waiting for someone to take notice.  Sam comes down the stairs and says hello in English.  As he walks closer it is obvious Sam has been upstairs relieving some ‘pressure’ as he smells like he could be a member of The Wailers. He was shrouded in a dope haze.  He pointed to a small table literally in the corner with two chairs askew.  I declined the invitation and moved to another dining room instead.  We sat down and looked at the menu and I said, ‘Well.  He seems like an interesting guy” and we both start laughing.  I wonder why he is smoking pot upstairs, and when he comes back by the table and hands us our menu I ask, “You having a hard day?”  That caught him off guard. He gave me a strange look then followed up by saying, “No, just tired.  I moved 5 tons of sand today, so I am worn out”.

We ate our meal and mused over the food. It was OK, but not great.  We finish up and ask for the ticket.  The waiter acknowledges and disappears.  He returns back with a platter with some crazy desert on it.  He sits it down in front of us and says, “Compliments of the chef”.  I have no idea what it was…but it was filled with fruit, I noticed kiwi.  It was like an eggroll which has been dipped in chocolate and fried.  Cut it in half and put a piece on each side of a big scoop of caramel ice cream-that was the desert.  “Do you think it really was sent out from the ‘chef’, or was it a mistake and rather than have it sit around the kitchen, they said, “Give it to those two sitting alone over there’? I ask Tonya.  She simply replies, “No!  I think it was actually sent out”

As we are heading out of the restaurant I see the dope smoker sitting at the small bar off to the side.  I tell Tonya I want a word with him.  I walk in and ask if I can have a moment of his time, that I would like to ask some questions about this place.  He obliges, and thus, we meet Sam who complains about bagels and poohing in public.  We spend about half an hour talking about life here and what people do and don’t do.  He gives us a brief lowdown.  He says he tried to do Montreal styled smoked meats here, but it didn’t work.  He complained about the fact that he could not fit a band into his restaurant too.  We talk music and he tells me I should go to Montreal, that it is a record lovers dream.  I don’t know about that one.  He tells of his racket selling albums on Ebay and how he loved it.  ‘I would work an hour and make as much money as my girlfriend who would work all day.  I sat home, got high and sold records.” He laughs, and tells of how he would go to Jamaica to buy records and sell them online. “Man, reggae is truly world music. Everyone loves reggae, it sells like crazy” he says.  I think to myself there are other reasons why he loved his Jamaican trips too.

“Hey man, I am here all the time.  If you need anything, let me know” he says as we say goodbye.  Needless to say we had plenty to talk over as we walked back home.

Indeed, this place is strange.  Retirees everywhere you look.  The locals tell you that people come here to escape, the big city and also reality.  It doesn’t take long to watch and see some sort of freak who decided this is the place to drop out and reinvent themselves into whatever shape or form they desire.  All the straw hats walking around are not the freaks; they are just the old folks.  You know they are the old folks form Michigan or wherever when you see hat on head, fanny pack and hiking sandals. Those, are the real gringos.  Sit in the main square and watch the flow of the straw hats going back and forth, intersected by costumed mariachis wandering the same plot of land, approaching bench after bench in hopes of getting a nod so they can serenade.  Look below and the little dirty kids are scurrying all around with small boxes of Chiclets. Why do they think every white person wants to buy Chiclets?  

Freaks. Gringos. Grey hair. Corn. Ice Cream. People dressed in Indian costumes, banging drums doing supposed ceremonial dances for all those who happen to come here for sightseeing and to spend the weekend.  The lady walking around the square, yelling at a guy in front of the guy who is selling papers laid out on the walkway.  Everyone diverts their gaze as to not get sucked into the ranting, cussing crazy woman’s world. We’re no different, we get up and decide to go explore a bit.  Twist, turn and take a stroll up this street and see what lies ahead.  Believe me, when we rounded the corner, we had no idea we’d encounter donkeys!

“OH!” Tonya exclaimed and stomped her feet, “I can’t stand it! Do you see them?  They are sooo cute”  Up ahead is a group of three donkeys pulled over out of the street.  One guy goes into a shop to buy something and the other decides its time to take a smoke break.  He lets his guard down when he pulls out his lighter and fires up.  As he inhales and leaves this plain of reality, one of the donkeys sees his chance.  We are walking on the opposite side of the street.  The renegade donkey is looking at us, he has a funny look on his face and his eyes are saying ‘don’t say a word’.  I am amused at the little guy, and he starts taking a few subtle steps away from the corner.  Realizing that his owner is enjoying his cigarette too much to keep him secure, the donkey decides it is time to move on.  He gets away from the others and starts heading down the street.  The smoker realizes his donkey is making a break for it.  He throws the cigarette down and runs after the donkey yelling for him to stop and come back.  He turns back to make sure the two donkeys he left behind don’t get any bright ideas either.  He waves to the cars coming down the street to stop.  I get a good laugh out of the site of this.  The donkey doesn’t get too far before the owner has gotten in front of him, turned him around and slapped him on his…ass.  He motions to the donkey to go back to the others and traffic and pedestrians alike are smiling at the slight inconvenience.  They don’t do that in the Hamptons!

The Wonders of Leonor (Pt.5)

I did sleep better than the previous night.  Perhaps it was the strange narrations of Werner Herzog echoing in my head that made me drift off thinking of the ol’ pre-historic days and cave paintings.  Maybe it was just getting more comfortable with our surroundings.  The cat didn’t moan and there were no ghosts.  I wake up to the cavernous dark space, and walk towards the old wooden shutters like a blind man with his hand outstretched, waiting to feel the window.  I fiddle with the lock, flip it back and open the shutters to let in the sharp bright morning light.  It is amazing how fast light can fill a place up.

As Tonya opens our big thick wooden door to go to the bathroom, the smell of something cooking comes wafting in.  I have no idea what it is, all I know is that it is Leonor and her maid in there making something awesome.  I take my turn doing the morning duties after Tonya, and then we both walk to the kitchen.  The sun is shooting big thick beams across the room and almost acting as a spotlight for Leonor as she stands and cooks in front of the stove.  “Good morning Tonya” she says with a huge smile and gives her a tight hug.  She casts a big smile towards me and I step up and give her a kiss and a big hug.  Perhaps it’s speaking out of turn, but maybe Leonor is the long lost grandmother we never had…it sure feels a bit like that.

Leonor has already brewed coffee, and sets a pot down on the small table in front of the window.  We both sit and pour up our first cup and the warm sun shining on our backs gives that extra nice ‘it’s a new day’ kind of feeling. Tonya and Leonor play catch up with some talk over preparing breakfast.  The maid comes in smiling and holding a few bags.  She has gone to buy some fresh bread and milk.  Leonor says we should move to the table and let the maid finish up and bring us breakfast.  I smile at the maid and we go sit at the table.

It is our last day, and we plan to leave by noon.  Leonor asks what we will do and asks if we would like to stay longer.  It is tempting, but we do not want to wear out our welcome and we miss the dogs terribly.  She tells us again that it is quite alright to stay and we are no bother.  We smile and politely decline.  The maid soon brings out a hot skillet of scalloped potatoes and eggs, a Spanish concoction.  There is a glistening pile of pink grapefruit on the center of the table.  It looks great in the middle of the blue and white pottery on which it sits.  The maid then brings out a basket of fresh rolls. These things are amazingly good.  We can’t get over how good they taste.  Leonor tells us that if we like them we should hurry and go buy some because they sell out quick.  Don’t get me wrong, I did not fill up on just bread, I piled heaps of the scalloped potatoes and eggs on my plate too. Oh man, they were good.

We sit and eat and talk about what we have seen and what we should still see.  Leonor tells us that next time we come she will show us some more things around the city, and some villages in the mountains.  Her maid walks in and says something to Leonor, then goes back to the kitchen.  She returns with a platter holding a sizeable chunk of tamales.  “Maria has brought some tamales form home for you” Leonor tells us as she sets the platter down.  “These are not city tamales” Leonor adds, “these are made different and taste a bit different…they are more rustic”.  She brought two types, a spicy chicken one and a sweet one made with cinnamon.  Leonor grabs one that is the size of a small puppy, peels the husk off then breaks it apart.  It is almost with a command that she asks for our dishes and puts the tamale on them.  After we almost clear our plates, she then grabs the sweet tamale and tells us to hand her our plates.  The masa is thick, and it is almost pure white.  Steam is rising off as the husk is taken away.  My plate is set before me and I take my fork and cut off a chunk. This is amazing.  The cinnamon tamale is out of this world.  It may not be city tamales, and it is better that they aren’t.  Without a doubt it is the rustic angle of these which makes them amazing. It also helps that they are probably made with lots of tender loving care too.  With all of this food, we take our time with breakfast and just enjoy the conversation.

I figure that now would be a good time to ask about the drug problem and how it has affected Guanajuato.  Needless to say, the drug thing is beyond out of control.  Anyone who can read can understand the way it is affecting this country.  Leonor had told us of being robbed at gunpoint at her home in Acapulco.  “It will never be the same” she says regarding that city.  I have even seen where the gangs are shooting up cabs and whoever is in them, innocent or not.  They are also getting quite famous for piling several dead bodies into SUVs and leaving them parked on the side of the road.  Leonor waxes somewhat lyrical when she tells of the masked gunmen who raided her home there, “I think they were policemen” she says.  I ask why.  “They spoke too eloquent to be your typical low life.  The main robber always addressed me in the formal.  He was very polite”, she says laughing at the absurdity of her statement.

It is not as bad in Guanajuato as in other places.  She has lived here for over 40 years, so I think her assessment is quite reputable.  She says it may be because it is a small town, but mainly because in the city itself it is too contorted and twisted that no one can run rampant through there.  “In the mountains around Guanajuato they have many fields where they grow marijuana.  I think most of the problems stay away and happen there.  It has been like that for a long time though, everyone knows what they do up in the mountains” There is crime though, but she thinks it has nothing to do with the drug problems you read about now.  This is just typical Mexican petty stuff.  “Every time someone here has their home broken in to, we all know who did it” she states plainly, and shakes her head in affirmation.  She tells of a certain family here, who has been controlling the area for as long as she has lived there.  The family’s sons pass down the duties of being the local bad-asses and thieves and no petty crime is done without this family being clued in.  She says the obvious, that the local cops are on the payroll, and the family gives them a monthly fee so that they never can trace down who the burglars are.  “We have known each other for many, many years” Leonor says, “but I never do anything more than say hello.  Yes, we are polite to one another, but anytime they try to make conversation or invite us for meals, I never go” she shakes her head and confesses that the further distance you keep this family, the better.  She then tells us of a few instances which lead directly to the notorious family.

The craziest part is that she tells of one of the daughters and a boyfriend she had.  It turns out the two got married and moved away.  To illustrate how small of a world it is, the couple moved to Mexico City and actually now live in the previous house of Tonya’s best friend.  Tonya tells Leonor she knows exactly where they live, because as a child she would play in the house.  Leonor is shocked to know that Tonya is so familiar with the home and can’t believe at how closely entwined we all are.  She looks up suddenly and asks, “Tim.  Would you like more coffee?  Shall I brew some more?”  I am stuffed and pumped full of plenty of caffeine. I tell her no, that I am just fine.

She asks if we want to see the rest of the home. Yes, of course, after all, we have only been privy to this one level.  It turns out that her home spreads out over four levels or more as it crawls down the mountain. A room here, an out door lounging area there, a pool over there, another room below.  It just seems to go on and on.  As she takes us down the mountain and shows us the different rooms (or smaller houses) she is quick to point out which ones were broken in to, exactly what was taken and how it aggravates her that the criminals live just a stone’s throw away.  Now that we have been given a full tour of the grounds and seen all the levels of the house Tonya and I are both truly overwhelmed.  Magnificent is not the word to use here…and I really can’t think what is.  Maybe more along the lines of majestic?  Yes, just seeing the room in which the guard sleeps will fulfill that definition.  A bed rests in front of a set of doors over 20’ tall.  A fireplace, a magnificent old wooden desk, rustic furniture everywhere and ornate blankets lay folded in case of need.  This is a picture perfect place that we are standing in.  Of course, in one corner is a group of candles that the guard lights to keep the ghost away.  Leonor laughs as she points to the subtle safe keeping measure that the guard has set up there in the lone corner.

We walk back up to the main house and Leonor stops in one of the levels of the garden and talks greenery for a moment.  Tonya mentions basil, and Leonor is quick to point to where she grows her herbs.  She hands Tonya a pot of basil to take home.  “Is there any other plants you would like to take home with you?” she politely enquires. I watch her as she stands and surveys her plants, she is lost for a brief moment as she enjoys her surroundings.  At the top of the stairs, she reminds us that we should run to the local store to buy some bread if we want it.  She then remembers a certain mine we should go to.  “We will save that for next time too” I tell her.  She laughs and says she will add it to the list of things to see on the next visit.  We will go to the famous Valenciana church though, which is said to be one of the best styles of Churrigueresque (Spanish baroque) in the new world.  Yes, it is pretty intricate when you see it in person too.

We are very disappointed though when we find out that the local shop has already sold out of bread though. Leonor was right, one must not take time eating a leisurely breakfast when bread this good is up for sale. Hands down, the best little rolls to be eaten in Mexico.

We return from our trip to the church and finalize our packing.  Leonor is in the kitchen starting to cook dishes for tomorrow when her brothers and sisters will arrive for Christmas.  Once again she asks if we would not like to stay.  We think we can make good time if we push off now, and it is almost noon.  She walks with us outside and we exchange goodbyes.  She opens her gate so we can pull the car out.  She stands and waves a loving goodbye.  It’s pathetic, like neither party can just get on with it.  As we pull away she is still standing, watching us drive off, jus like a mother or a grandmother would do.  We keep saying to one another what a wonderful lady she is and how fortunate we were to be able to spend this time with her and get to see her home and all her history.  As we twist down the hill and into town, we wonder if we will manage to unwind our way out and get on to the right highway to Mexico City.  We almost pull it off without a hitch.  Only one wrong turn that was quickly put right, and we are well on the way home.

Later that evening as we are eating the phone rings.  I hear Tonya’s voice change in complete surprise.  It is Leonor.  She has called to make sure we made it back OK and asking if the dogs were OK.  Everyone is fine and a heap of thanks is sent back down the line to her.  Tonya wishes her well, a Merry Christmas and then comes and sits down and tells me of their brief conversation, “That was sooo sweet” she says.  It was.  Who would have thought a simple phone call from your landlord would be so appreciated?

The next afternoon Leonor calls again.  She is a bit upset.  She has received news that her brothers and sister will not arrive for another three or four days.  Now we really do feel like heels.  Oh well, who could have known?  Leonor will have more time on her hands and we lament not being able to have enjoyed more time with her there at her home.  For us though, it is still a few days before Christmas and we both agree that the best possible gift we could have gotten we had just experienced.  Although the remainder of our holiday season will be spent alone, we are happy with the time we were able to spend in such a wonderful place with such a warm, generous person. 

What a lady!

The Wonders of Leonor (Pt.4)

Back at home, Leonor asks if we want a round of tequilas before lunch.  We decline, and she says she will prepare something to eat then.  She goes out to her garden and gets some fresh herbs and then begins to work her magic.  Since we had bought a chicken while we were out, it doesn’t take long before she says, “Let’s eat!” and sets out some fresh tomatoes and homegrown basil.  The smell is strong and refreshing.  She has a bowl of guacamole too, a basket of fresh bread, some jalapenos and the chicken. It is truly time to eat…and believe me, we do!  There is some tasty food, but I had not expected some of the tasty stories that would be told as we sat for our lengthy lunch.

Both Leonor and Manuel loved Italy.  It is obvious, as around the house, someone had hung up pictures and posters of Sienna, their favorite town.  We had been talking of our favorite places we had visited, and Leonor happily tells us about her love, Italy.  She has a longtime friend who they met ages ago, from Sienna.  This friend is an Italian historian is who very well known for his books and lectures.  The family has an old villa, where they grow olives and have a vineyard.  Leonor and Manuel used to go and spend time there, and she tells of how she loved to go out and help with the harvests of olives and grapes.  She tells of the first time she had truly fresh pressed olive oil and how it mad her gag.  She told of the famous visitors who would come and stay at the villa while they were there.  There were celebrities, presidents, prime ministers and all sorts of society types.  “Picasso’s art dealer would stay there.  He was always greeted with very special privileges that others staying there did not have” she says.  She goes on to tell how he always dressed the same no matter what he was doing.

She would go on to reveal that this friend of theirs worked for Mussolini.  He was actually in charge of the states art committee or whatever it is called in Italy.  He was a very well cultured gentleman and was fluent in both German and Italian.  “He hated Mussolini” she says.  She speculates that in later life, this very gentleman had been blackmailed about something in his past, because she said, “there was something shady he was dealing with that he never told anyone”   he clashed with the ideologies of the time and hated life under ‘Il Duce’ .  She tells that because of his position in the Italian arts and histories, that when Hitler paid Mussolini a visit, he was their tour guide.  “He took the two leaders to all the important historical and architectural sites around the country” she says. “He would take them somewhere and begin to point out the fine details of this and that and why it was important.  Hitler never cared.  He never wanted to know anything about the historical or design aspects.  If there was a battle or if a fight occurred on any spot that is what he wanted to know.  He only wanted to know how the battle was won or who the victor was and why. He was very annoyed with the close mindedness of Hitler” she tells.  She also ties the story of a very well known patron of the arts, Harry Kessler, and how he became known as The Red Count.  Fascinating and intricate stuff, and to think she was a witness and a friend to some of these men!

As much as I am enjoying my fresh tomatoes and basil, wood smoked chicken and guacamole, it pales in comparison to all that Leonor is telling us.  My beer is gone too soon, as we still have more stories to hear.

Somehow, she weaves in a fascinating story of an Estonian man who was renowned for his horsemanship.  He too, was tied in somehow with Leonor her husband and their entertaining.  The Russians were in awe of this particular man.  His style was impeccable and his handling of horses was complete perfection.  Of course, at these times there is political intrigue involved, and lots of it!  She laughs as she tells why his style of riding was that of legend, sheer perfection. “Everyone admired the way he rode.  He was so poised and grand when he rode.  Of course, it would later be revealed as to how he had such great style.  All the while of working under the Russian aristocracy, he was stealing form them!  He had such great form because he would take the horses out and instruct people how to ride, he would have money shoved in his riding pants at his knees” she says laughing. “He would money there and would have to hold his knees tightly against the horses so that when he rode he would not jostle around and loose the money!”  She is sitting upright and acting out as if she were riding a horse on display for everyone.

I lost track of exactly how we transitioned from the dining table to the living room.  It is easy to understand why though; when so much is being unfurled in front of you.  Next thing I know is we are sitting in the den and have espresso on the table in front of us and a few plates of Mexican deserts.  “We should sit and enjoy the sun set again, it is so beautiful” Leonor says.  Funny, but when the sun gets to a certain point, she instructs us on where to sit and she takes a particular chair to enjoy the event in.  She points across the room at an old chair and she makes the shape of a gun with her fingers, “That chair!  That is the very chair Pancho Villa was killed in!” she says aloud and starts laughing.

The view from the roof

Leonor points out that the sun is about to set, and asks if I would like to go on the roof to get a better view.  I jump at the invitation, and she and Tonya stay in the den to chat.  Watching the sun go down over the valley gives me time to reflect.  It has been a great day and has served to drive home the fact that no matter how I feel about being in Mexico, I am truly blessed and fortunate to be able to meet people like Leonor and be shown their homes and their lives.  This is such a treat and our visit has turned out to be more than we ever could have imagined.  I had no idea that when I woke up this morning that my day would entail everything from Abe Lincoln to Don Quixote, Hitler and a thieving Estonian to name only a few. 

When I go back downstairs both Tonya and Leonor are enjoying whatever it is they have been chatting about.  We spend quite a while sitting in our spots, talking about whatever may come up.  Leonor comments that she is growing tired, and is ready to call it a day.   She hugs Tonya and tells her how much she is enjoying our company and that it was nice that we came to visit, “I knew you would like it.  I hoped you would” she says.  She is so right, we love it and we tell her that we are so very thankful that she invited us into her home and to spend the weekend with her like this.  There is no doubt; this has been one of the best weekends of my life.

When we get back to our room, we are shocked to see what time it is.  The darkness fooled us, and it is not even 9pm yet!  We laugh about retreating to our room so early.  We pull out the computer and decide to watch the most recent documentary from Werner Herzog, which proves to be another mind blowing adventure.  By the time we turn the lights off, we have worn ourselves out.  It may not be physical, but the mental intake today has been quite a load.  I could care less about ghosts tonight and am actually giving more thought in hoping that the stray cat goes and moans somewhere else.  As I pull the covers up and try to get comfy, I am reminded of ol’ Abe and how I could easily look down on the chump.  His bed better pay off double tonight!

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