 |
||||||
 |
||||||
|
San Miguel de Allende
|
||||||
 |
||||||
 |
||||||
 |
||||||
 |
||||||
 |
||||||
August 5, 2004
From our short stay here last year, the familiar landmarks appeared one after another, forming a first welcome. That became complete with Charlotte greeting us at the door of our new home on Calle Allende. We shared our mutual great relief that both hosts and guests were personable, easy company. Charlotte led us past the open stairway and into our quarters. After a walkaround tour of our domicile and downstairs studio she left us to settle. Paintbrush immediately took to her new digs and found a sunny balcony on which to unwind.
With that journey behind us the real one now begins. Stefanie and I have spent most of our lives together directing our energies to this moment. Our dream was to begin doing the creative work we both felt was our natural vocation as soon as possible. Now we look at each other with big smiles, knowing we've made the first part happen, but also with small wrinkles of concern and anticipation as we begin to discover what other resources we may have inside us that can make this life happen for us.
San Miguel began to seed itself in our minds a few years ago when Stef found a book by a woman who fell in love with the place. And now we are here at last, luggage unpacked, groceries in the fridge, art supplies in the studio. Full hearts and full lives ahead.
— Dave
Flying here Sunday was a bit like diving into an abyss, or maybe the Twilight Zone. I kept telling myself that I’d need to get used to that kind of uncertainty when we get into the next phase of our travels to other parts of the world. Arriving at O’Hare, we found our departure time had been bumped up an hour. But once on the plane, the pilot announced that the airline’s computers were down nationwide, so we wouldn’t be taking off until they were up again. Our connection wait in Dallas was longer than anticipated, and we finally took off at about the time I’d told our landlord, Charlotte, that we’d arrive at the apartment. Paintbrush’s tranquilizers were looking better and better to me all the time. She seemed calm enough, perhaps they would help Mama, too! Hmmm.
Getting to the airport in Leon, (about an hour and 20 minutes from San Miguel) there were still a couple of hurdles. It took about 20 minutes to get through the customs line and get our passports stamped. However, I was stopped by an official, as we were gathering our bags from the baggage claim, to inspect Paintbrush. A bit like being stopped by the police, a decidedly unnerving welcome to a new country. His English was about as bad as my Spanish, but it soon became apparent that he wanted to see her health and rabies certificates and then fill out 2 forms in triplicate, which I had to sign. So much for Lonely Planet’s Thorntree posts saying Mexico never asks for your pet’s paperwork! Finally, we were cleared and I was the last person out of customs from our flight.
After living in a “basement” condo for 8 years it’s strange to wake up in the trees. Outside our bedroom window is a juniper tree, which attracts sparrows and doves. The raucous blackbirds seem to prefer the more exotic flowering tree in our neighbor’s backyard several feet further back. The sun is definitely on Mexican time here, coming up around 7:00am. Dave says he hears the sparrows begin to peep one by one as it gets light. Eventually, the blackbirds gather in the neighbor’s tree to shake and preen, and the rooster across the street announces the new day.
Our neighbors are mostly Mexican, this being a middle class working neighborhood. Already I can feel the hominess of the place as I walk up the steep, short block of Xichu and turn onto our street, Calle Allende. There are a couple mom and pop groceries down the street for quick purchases. What do you call paper towels in Spanish? Pointing works pretty well for the shop’s daughter who is enlisted to use the broomstick with a nail to retrieve my request from the very top shelf. “Veinte y seis,” I think the shopkeeper says. I hand her the 20 and before I can give her 6, she hands me change. Four pesos. Oh, it was diez y seis, I realize as I head out the door. But, in the few days we’ve been here and with a few purchases of small things, I’ve felt very smug in otherwise understanding what numbers they’ve told me. A few small victories but so much more to learn in this new place we now call home.
— Stef
August 9, 2004
This is a new luxury I’m still a little self-conscious about. Yesterday I was recovering from a bout of “turista” the night before, so I spent the day reading and taking it easy. I felt uncomfortably idle, even moving downstairs to the couch in the studio, knowing that Chela was busy cleaning my house. If I’d have been busy in the studio painting or drawing instead of reading perhaps I would not have worried so much about her seeing what I was doing. Or I should say, worrying about what she would think of me doing nothing. I guess there’s little danger of my becoming one of the idle rich anytime soon!
It also felt like a missed opportunity. My poor Spanish kept me from saying much more to Chela than who I was and the name of my cat, which she pronounced probably as well as I do much of her native Espanol. I wanted to ask her some simple things but stopped myself because I couldn’t think of what the words were in Spanish. So I said nothing. Coward.
Today we set off for the Instituto de Allende, the art school here in town, that was hosting an art show this weekend, which our landlords also happened to be participating in. Charlotte is a fabulous photographer and Wolf makes beautiful handcrafted and designed furniture. They were easily the most talented artists in the show, but there was a good selection of local craft artists and jewelers as well. The artists and crowd was a mix of Mexicans and gringos, and today I was determined I would not let my tongue be tied and keep me from enjoying some initial interactions with people. “Bonito agua tinta,” I say to a woman who has some small lovely watercolor cards for sale. “Acuarela,” she corrects me. “Oh, acuarela, si,” I correct myself, and she smiles. A little learn-as-you-go Spanish! Another woman is selling wonderful handmade scarves in loosely woven colorful material. When I touch one of them, she picks it up and says something that seems incomprehensible to me. When I look dumbly at her she repeats it, “En cabeza,” while wrapping the scarf around her head. “Oh, si!” I say and apologize for my poor Spanish. She tells me she doesn’t speak English, so we’re even. But I could sure use some of her bravery in plunging forward in talking to these folks!
— Stef
Our casita is up the hillside south of town centro. The view is spectacular, especially in the morning looking towards town with its church spires and tiny tiles of houses. Or in the late afternoon when the daily thunderstorms roll in from the east, heading off towards the far western mountain range forming glowing light effects at their base. The weather patterns turn everything upside down for me, going east to west contrary to midwestern convention, and my internal compass still wants to tell me north is south. Maybe that's all for the best since we have done likewise to our lives and this weather pattern shapes a new design for it.
The town sits at 6400 feet and that takes some acclimating as well. Somewhere inside me is the lung power to pull groceries up the steep cobblestones streets and I hope to find it with practice, having made two attempts to take on the challenge and instead reaching home in a pool of sweaty exhaustion. My leg muscles are toning for this life. The oxygen-to-blood gateways in my lungs are in the process of being rediscovered. Maybe I'll be ready for that job with the Swiss Guides after six months of this.
Last night was the Corrida de Toros at the bullfight ring right in residential town center. I walked by there before the fight yesterday to see the crowd lined up early for the shady seats in the "sol" area (cheaper than the officially shady or "sombra" seats). I don't know if I can convince Stefanie to go with me but I really want to see this thing sometime. Maybe its the classic bullfighting posters sold outside, the "Papa" Hemingway resonance, or plain old unabashed blood-lust laying just beneath this calm exterior. I'm curious to see the spectacle. Maybe it will pass.
— Dave
August 17, 2004
Last night I heard fireworks blanging off from 4 to 5 am or so. Not knowing what was up, I buried my head between two pillows, jealous of Stefanie who was enjoying her deafness on the pillow beside me. We spent Sunday morning walking the higher streets of San Miguel, snapping pictures and greeting the people out with us on a beautiful day. After finding the right store that sells international phone cards we exited onto a parade. Police cars led the procession of relics and crucifixes, followed by dancers in Mayan headdress, wild looking kids in animal skins, their own skin smeared with black. Then the giant puppets of Mexico, the “monigotes”, which seemed in this case to be satirizing the buxom, vain female. All this was accompanied by fireworks, or more precisely, aerial bombs, exploding above and resounding down the old stone streets. It was only then I realized the reason for the rude early morning noisemakers; yet another day honoring some saint to parade their effigy around the city.
So we move though our days with a different sort of sounds. Not the traffic noises or the sirens of Roosevelt Road in Berwyn. Not the cycling of air conditioning or furnace starting up. Another set of sounds sets a new rhythm and reminds us that our lives have changed.
— Dave
Charlotte and Wolf, our landlords, are trying to get home to Austin, Texas while we try to turn this place into our home. The travel gods are playing tricks with their van — a repaired leaking radiator arriving late from Mexico City has stalled their departure. They are anxious to be on the road, with airline tickets to leave for Italy from Austin Thursday for a family reunion. Our own recent travel debacle gives us added sympathy for their predicament.
“Some kind of strange vacation,” Dave noted this morning during breakfast. It is indeed. Our minds try to assimilate between the exotic locale (They’re speaking a different language, so it must be vacation.) and our extended stay (My toothbrush is in a rack, so maybe this is home.). We watch our new neighbors and see a different rhythm of life than we are used to. Women sweep their doorways and the streets in front of their houses every morning and finish with a bucket of sudsy water swished along the sidewalk to keep down dust. One of our elderly neighbors, her gray hair wrapped loosely in back with a shawl, was industriously sweeping the stone street in front of our door when we stepped out this morning to go to the post office. We traded greetings and smiles, and she went on with her work. Rooftop terraces are also washed down, the trickle of water coming to the street from above through spouts in the walls. I’ve learned to watch where I walk.
On the way to the post office, we pass the open laundry — rows of stone stalls with an aqueduct — where a woman is scrubbing her family’s clothes. Her three children play in the water as it runs along the top of the washing area, giving their dolly a bath. Clothes dry spread out atop bushes in the center of the lavenderia. I think of the real, hard work that I see most of the local women doing here and it stands in stark contrast to the life we have left behind. A lot of the domestic work is what we think of as the old fashioned way – by hand and with a lot of elbow grease. And there is a lot of walking and carrying heavy loads. While most families have washing machines, laundry is hung on rooftops. Rugs are mopped with damp string mops. A trip to the store for groceries involves going to several stores — carneceria for red meat, a separate place for chicken, the farmaceria for toiletries and dry goods, and papeleria for school supplies and gift wrap. Children tag along on the arms of their mother, babies swaddled in a blanket around their mother’s upper body. The haul of groceries and goods are jammed in oversized colorful bags and baskets, carried home or schlepped aboard public buses.
We ride the Caracol bus, our neighborhood transport. Buses here remind me of church buses at home, script lettering running along the sides atop the windows. For 4 pesos (40 cents) it saves you from climbing the long hill from Centro with your bags. We finally found a panaderia for bread today, and we made our stop for milk (sold in liters, so we buy frequently). The bus winds through the narrow streets, sometimes causing on-coming cars to back up while we pass. The mid-day bus is filled with people; Dave stands on the back door stairs while a mother ushers her son onto her lap to give me a seat. “Gracias,” I say as I settle in next to them. We rumble upward, gears grinding, toward home.
— Stef
August 26, 2004
My week began with one of those small things, a fleeting moment too quickly over. The daily chatter of sparrows and blackbirds gathered in our trees outside the apartment have become part of our morning events. I look for other birds in hopes of finding something more exotic and have come to regret not bringing along our binoculars. I strain to get the details of little birds on neighboring rooftops and trees. The occasional swallow flits by as well as the morning and evening to and fro of the little egrets. Until this week I’d only seen hummingbirds upon our arrival in San Miguel. Last year while we waited in the heat outside our apartment for the manager to let us in, a tiny hummer appeared at the flowering vines above our heads. This year on our way into town we saw one from the van window as we dropped another passenger off. But I’d wearied of seeing another, until one suddenly appeared in front of me as I sat at the computer one morning checking e-mail. Our computer sits in front of our bedroom window, overlooking the juniper tree so loved by our resident sparrows. Movement caught my eye, and I was startled to see the white underbelly of a small hummingbird briefly hovering at my eye level just outside the window. It stayed only long enough for me to wonder what it was after since there are no flowers where it appeared. Maybe it saw its reflection. Whatever the reason, the little guy was gone long before I had had my fill.
Children are part of the working world here in Mexico. They often serve as ticket takers in buses and grocery baggers. They’re also among the beggars that routinely ask for money. Dave and I have had several discussions about what to do when approached, especially when the one asking is a child. If I give a coin to one person, doesn’t the next just as well deserve the same? It’s a conundrum. Children are also pressed into service selling packets of Chicklets, as well as other small items. We saw whole armies of children selling a variety of trinkets around the streets of Oaxaca last year. I have a difficult time with watching them and also saying no. Mostly I don’t need or want what they are trying to get me to buy, plus it just seems an exploitation of the children and a hit on my emotions. It’s hard to remain nonjudgemental, but in the end, it seems the only way. Sunday, as we sat in the Jardin watching people and talking to a student from San Luis Potosi, a small girl of 5 or 6 plopped a little handmade cloth doll in front of me, her attempt to make a sale. The doll had braided yellow yarn hair adorned with colored ribbons, a colorful embroidered dress, and a smiling face. She was made for the tourist trade, and while somewhat native in appearance, looked decidedly Caucasian. Nonetheless, the sweet face of the doll matched the sweet countenance of the child before me. “Cuantos?” I asked. Her face became bashful and she turned to her mother, not far away. “Treinta,” her mother informed us. “This is your lucky day,” I said, mostly to myself, and handed her the thirty pesos (about $3). She shyly took the coins and $20 peso bill as I told her “Gracias.” A salesperson in training.
Then on the way home after a small bite to eat and an extended cloud burst, I was adopted by a tan dog, one of the many indistinguishable strays seen everywhere. Who knows what he saw in me, since I don’t think I even spoke to him as we walked along on our way to the farmacia and then to catch a bus. But before I realized it, Dave called my attention to my new shadow, now following behind at a few paces. A sweet face with intelligent eyes. I always was a sucker for that. Several street crossings later, we were at the farmacia. I saw the dog at the curb as I went inside, but he reappeared in the hair products aisle as I tried to decide on a brand of hair spray. Up and down the aisles we went, him at my heals. Finally, at the bus stop he seemed to have blessedly disappeared. But as we stepped onto the bus I turned to see him standing a little distance away looking at me. Bye for now, old pal.
— Stef
When I was 27 I remember having the distinct impression that I was at my mental and physical peak. I was working as a cook at a mountain retreat center during the summer and picking apples in the fall. I also remember the time as one where I had great clarity regarding my future. I knew that I would go back to school to get a graphic arts degree, go to work for a few years to save money for travel, then travel to Asia for 6 months. After that I would return home, this time to work at my profession for a longer period, maybe 15 years, with a plan to save money both for retirement and to take the next big step. By age 50, I’d have changed direction again to pursue a life as an artist for the rest of my days. It all seemed clear, and the prospect seemed very exciting.
Well yesterday I had my 50th birthday in Mexico. Although the Mexico thing wasn’t in the original plan, everything else unfolded pretty much the way it appeared to me 23 years ago. One other major exception was adding a marriage to Stefanie to that scenario (a fine and proper inclusion I might add). It really seems kind of weird that the image of what lay ahead for me has actually happened, with only minor differences. I know life tends to drift from best laid plans but in my case I’ve been blessed to have these dreams come true. I look back in wonder.
At this milestone age when the energetic sins of youth run away and the new perditions of age show their sleepy eyes to me, it's time for a new life. After those many years being hard-headed and faithful to my career as an Art Director I’ve given my heart the lead for a change. In my talks with Stef we both feel that’s what this situation requires. We’ve basically leapt into the unknown, while keeping a lamp over the image of what we might become by living experimentally. It involves faith, some courage (though I still say we’re only doing what’s necessary), and maybe being just crazy enough.
So, I guess I've had a chance encounter with myself. I met Dave. And he's fifty! It's nice to see me still around.
— Dave
