A Tale of Two, no, Three, no, Four Comidas

Do I hear FIVE??

We have just emerged with chile stained fingers from another round of fiestas and their attendant comidas. The big, really big fiesta time is, of course at Christmas. Two or more weeks of visiting, eating barbacoa, mole and sopa seca de arroz.

The impetus behind this semi-minor round of parties on the carnitas and mole circuit here was the end of the school terms. These are not celebrated in an "efficient", North of the Border way, like all at once, but extended over as long a period as possible to extract maximum enjoyment.

This period of fiestas and comidas also falls during an optimum time, when the "Summer People" (as I call them) have come for a visit, "del otro lado", that is, taking time off from their jobs in the U.S. to come home. The Summer People are really the local people, but those who went north to work and improve their fortunes. Some have been gone from here as many as 18 years.

Our fiesta and comida schedule started a week ago last Friday, on the 20th of June, with a Mass followed by a big tent party in celebration of a a pair of kids who had attained their third birthday. There were carnitas, soda and beer, then later, cake (which we didn't stay for.)

Last weekend, the Fiesta Circuit ratcheted up: Friday night we went to a pre-graduation/birthday pig pickin' at the house of Rubén and Isabel. The affable mechanic Rubén gave us a warm welcome, then filled our bowls with heaps of pozole. We could have had carnitas instead, but it seemed prudent to avoid those meaty morsels a couple of hours before bedtime.

Saturday evening brought a change of pace and of tastes; an expat party. Susan D invited us at to a birthday party for her husband, Doug, at their lovely new house. That was principally an expat gathering. Guests contributed a wide array of tasty dishes dear to us, the extranjeros. I brought a sort of Cheese and Salami Pizza Bread and a jug of Ginger Beer.

Restored by this contact with "home base", we launched into the Sunday final stretch with renewed vigor.

But a minor social crisis loomed over us. Both my wife, Susan and I had separately accepted invitations to two different comidas a half mile or less apart. We gave the original one priority, and enjoyed a terrific mole made by Señora Carmelina, as well as a tasty sopa seca de arroz. That was at the house of young Sra. Irma and her husband Sr, Ramón, just down the street.

By eating wisely (for once!), then excused ourselves with thanks, to walk up to our second fiesta at the house of Sra. Paz and Sr. Daniel. We made it inside even as freshet of rain broke upon us. We were greeted by more salutations and familiar faces, including those of Rubén and Isabel. I accepted a beer, but Susan couldn't eat anything. Various guests came and left, and then our hosts seated themselves in front of us, and we learned the various family relationships of people we knew and those new to us. This subject requires long and laborious study to fully grasp, assisted by a Cerveza Corona or two.

La Señora Paz made sure that we didn't leave her house empty handed. After we went out and admired their garden, she brought us a substantial bowl of mole de pollo and arroz, topped with a few tortillas.

Now we can rest from fiestas and comidas, with the exception of next Saturday, when we will fire up the charcoal grill in honor of El Día de La Independencia de Los Estados Unidos, and welcome back our neighbors, Geni and Larry.

Then we have a month to prepare for the fiesta and comida we will host for the community in celebration of our two years living here and in appreciation for their amiable kindnesses. It will be a pizza party plus. No mole. I leave the making of that to the cocineras expertas.

For you ladies, here are instructions from another website as to "How To Dress For A Mexican Fiesta". You can take these with several granos de sal.

¡Menudo Free Delivery!

Our ranchito in Michoacán, México gets quite a few vendor vehicles serving the area with bread, tortillas, fruits and vegetables, cleaning supplies, and groceries in general. They usually have taped spiels (Sometimes intelligible, more often not) accompanied by music. It's very charmingly old fashioned.

Just now was a first for me. I heard the music and announcement of a loudspeaker. I went out to see what it was. Our landlady, Sra. Chucha, was buying menudo de becerro (Calve's tripes in chile broth) from another woman who had it in a large pot in the trunk of her car. The customers bring their own containers. The actual tripe pieces, rather gray and unattractive, sat off to the side in a large bowl. I don't know what it cost, as it didn't ignite my appetite. I didn't particularly like the smell, either. But it was the first time I'd seen Menudo Free Delivery out here in el campo.

My previous posts on "Confronting Menudo" are here.

(Today's menudo wasn't as attractive as that in the photo above.)

The Chicken Dance, Part 3

Disclaimer:
The Management of this blog regrets to inform its readers that there will be no Chicken Dance in this episode. There will, instead, be a Bull Dance.)

After passing the carved portals of the Salon Diana, showered with confetti, we stood in awe at the upper tier of the site. Along the wall to our back was the small kitchen, which would somehow feed and assuage the thirsts of an estimated 500 guests. While waiting, the visitors could snack on churros, papitas (delicious thick potato chips), or nieves y helados. With the exception of the nieves seller, who was limited in range by his cart, the others wandered about freely in the venue, mingling with the merrymakers, and keeping starvation at bay. We bought some papitas.

Below, the vast cavern sloped down in gradual tiers. I'll make a wild estimate that it is at least 50 meters wide by 150 meters long, with a ceiling ranging from 3 meters to 15 meters in height. (Please, don't hold me to this.)
I'll also wildly estimate that there were 50 to 75 long tables, each capable of holding 8 guests easily. The folding chairs were notably comfortable.

The Pastel de Boda stood on a pedestal at the far end of the hall. It was unusually spare and elegant. I assumed that the caterers had a few full sheet cakes in reserve, as that cake wouldn't serve more than 35-50 guests.

María made sure to point out the location of the baños, down and to the right of the Pastel de Boda, in their own semi-subterranean crypt. I had to be careful to duck my head when stepping down under the low hung lintel. Inside, the facilities were basic but clean and functional.

Enough statistics.

We were entertained by a small but wild band, who played the loopy, merry, even frenetic music; the tuba holding down the bass line, while clarinets, and brass instruments wheedled and noodled the manic melodies in a crashing cacophony of cymbals. I was somewhat reminded of the tone and tenor of Klezmer music.

A beefily built jóven held a small set of bulls horns at waist level and made a show by dancing a repetition of tight steps as the band and banner-waving women circled, keeping up with his macho display. They moved from outside to the Salon, where the women's increased efforts to "capture" him finally succeeded and "ensnared" him with long scarves or cloth streamers.
Dr. Freud would have enjoyed.

We took seats at a table in the upper tiers, far from the blasts of the band down by the Pastel de Boda. The table was set with a paper tablecloth, adorned with two miniature, wooden donkey or ox carts, each holding a green potted plant. Napkins nested in a little "tiara" servilletero. There were tortilla baskets with little lace rings around the waist. Very sweet.

Waiters began to fan out into the hall; first distributing cervezas, 2.5 liter bottles of Coca o Fresca, then plastic bowls of lightly pickled sliced vegetables. These were carrots, potatoes, jícama, onion, a very little chile, and the Número Uno Coveted Prize: Pickled Chicken Feet! That was as close as we got to a Chicken Dance, due to our premature departure. I willingly gave up my chicken feet to Sra. Chucha, who greatly enjoyed them.

Hot, foil wrapped stacks of tortillas came and were duly nested in the dainty baskets. Then unwrapped corundas of an unusual yellowish hue and a coarser than normal texture. Heavy but good.

After we toasted each other with our Coronas or Victorias, filling up on corundas, nibbling pickles and chicken feet, glomming an extra, unclaimed bowl from an adjacent table, the main course began emerging from the kitchen.

At first, the distribution system was made of of enthusiastic volunteers, forming a "bucket brigade" and passing plates one at a time from hand to hand.
Points for good will, points off for inefficient use of personnel. :-)

Then waiters took over, carrying several plates on the large, round pot lids; then they caught fire, loading up an entire table with plated food and schlepping the whole table down into the hall. ¡Bravo!

And the band played on, a loud, weird, disharmonious cacophony. We were content to sit as far away as possible.

Our main course arrived: "Churipo", as it is called locally, does not fit the classic definition of churipo, but that's what it was and is here; a very simplified stew of beef in red chile broth, without vegetables. We've had it similarly prepared at La Fiesta de La Virgen de Guadalupe, here in Las Cuevas.

We also had a very simple sopa seca de arroz. Surprisingly, after eating one serving, half the stodgy rice, and two tortillas, we were full.

I was running out of energy, so we said our good-byes, leaving the chicken dance and a slice of Pastel de Boda to the lucky and hardy majority who stayed. Our companions started divvying up the table favors; the tortillas in the basket, the oxcarts with plants, and we settled for the plastic napkin holder.
Estuvo una boda inolvidable, y les agradecemos por la experiencia.

(Now, I don't have to ever do it again. Unless the children of friends are getting married.)

Just one last thought: what do the newlyweds do with all those nut and candy dishes that they received from 500+ guests?)

This just in: I was searching for ways to use capulines, a sort of small wild cherry, and I came across this "paper" written by Robert V. Kemper of SMU,, Dallas, Texas, on "FOOD IN TZINTZUNTZAN, MICHOACÁN, MEXICO: TRADITIONS AND TRANSFORMATIONS", with intriguing references to geographical locations such as Sanabria and Chapultepec, two places which which we are quite familiar.

The Chicken Dance, Part 2

On arriving at Tzintzuntzan, we easily found parking near the Presidencia. The siren's song was a taco stand, wafting tempting smells of onions and sizzling beef from across from where we'd parked. Little Alejandro was already hungry, so he, María, Amparo and Socorro each ate a few (about 3 each) tacos. With hindsight, I now realize that they knew something we didn't. To survive a big fiesta, you fortify yourself in the early stages.

We then strolled onto the beautiful church grounds amidst gathering wedding guests and slow-moving strings of guided tour groups.



Then we waited. The Padre had not arrived yet. After about 30 minutes, I went back to the gate to a tienda de abarrotes (small Mom 'n Pop grocery) and bought some cacahuates enchilados and a delicious "Doblón" snack cake to tide me over. It would be several hours before we'd eat again.

The Padre arrived, and he blessed the congregation, sprinkling all with Holy Water. La Misa proceeded well, with a chorus in the loft. It turned out to be a sincere and enthusiastic group of young mariachis. The wedding was an emotionally moving experience for me, as it always is. The whole ceremony lasted less than an hour.

We then gathered outside again to wait. The wait was made interesting by conversations I struck up with the mariachis, and with a young man, originally from Puebla, who's worked in Seattle for many years. We chatted variously, especially about pulque, its varieties and its health benefits. He claimed that his abuela lived to the age of 133, crediting her longevity to daily pulque consumption.

Una jarra de pulque


The Pulque drinkers


After perhaps 30 minutes, we left the church grounds and ambled along the streets of Tzintzuntzan to a small building, probably a tortillería, across from the PRD (a political party: "Partido Revolucionario Demócrato") offices, where chairs and light refreshments awaited us.

Then we waited. A long time. About 2 hours. It felt like more.
Time passed like inspecting lentils for pebbles.

Studying the surroundings. Cardboard wall partition to the right.
Chatting about making pizzas.
Going to the semi-open baño at the back of the still under construction building.
Wandering out to the street for relief from the occasional fumes of insecticide drifting in.
Looking at the several attractive women among the various others waiting.
Going out for snacks. (see below.)
Turning down offers of Tequila being passed down the line by our gracious hosts.
Another store, across the street, held more waiting guests. They also waited in chairs along the sidewalk.

After more waiting, the newlywed's party finally arrived, banners waving. While everyone else went to the Salón de Eventos La Diana, we walked the 6 or 8 blocks back to our car, in order to pick up the gifts.

Vendedoras with large baskets of pan dulce walked by, and we bought a few breads to hold off increasing hunger. I bought a largish flat brown bun that was too coarse and dry to eat without some beverage in which to dunk it.

Farther along, we were saved by a stand selling hot freshly cooked chicharrones—fried pork skins). They are in large, curly pieces and delicious with or without a dash of Valentina Salsa Picante. Hunger was relieved.

Good sense prevailed and we drove back streets to within one block of the Salón Diana. Maidens showered us from their baskets of confetti as we entered the impressively carved doors of the Salón. The huge interior, large enough for a livestock exposition, was beautifully decorated with festoons of white "stalactites" joined at the junctures by hearts. Far ahead in the semi-gloom I could see table after table. There may have been more than 50 long tables.

There were also several pre- main event diversions, which I'll discuss in "The Chicken Dance, Part 3"

The Chicken Dance, Part 1

I've said it before: you have to be strong to party with Mexicans. They have the fiesta thing down, while we extranjeros feebly struggle to keep up. Fiestas seldom happen as one off events. No, they at least come in pairs and more often than not, series of parties over a week or two.

For example, we'd been invited to a small family get together on Friday at the home of our neighbor, Sr., Jesús O. and his wife, Praxedes. Only 15 or 18 guests, family and friends, gathered to celebrate Sr. O.'s Día del Santo.

It was a nice, quiet, family affair, with home made mole de pollo y arroz, the ubiquitous 2.5 liter refrescos bottles, and some cookies and bread pudding that I'd made. Our tablemates and I conversed on Las Vegas, Nevada, its attractions and its downsides.

Ah! the first Cocteles Margaritas I'd ever seen served at a local party made an appearance. (It's those gringo influences, learned al Otro Lado, infitrating La Cultura Mexicana.) I will say, however, they were done in a distinctively local interpretation, served in vasos plásticos deshechables.

Later in this intimate gathering, our amiga, María de la Luz B. asked if we'd like to go to a dance the next day, in Tzintzuntzan. I didn't understand at first, thinking she wanted me to dance with her. If so, she was joking, as I have a well-deserved reputation for two left feet. Our landlady, Sra. "Chucha" B., seated next to me, further explained that there was to be a wedding at Tzintzuntzan on the morrow, and that we should attend. The big draw would be the performance of La Danza de Pollos.
Wow! The Chicken Dance???

I was, of course, intrigued. They sank the hooks deeper as they skillfully played the line, with mentions of The Cerveza Dance and the Dance of El Torito. The clincher was that these dances were unique to Tzintzuntzan (only a few miles away over the ridge or a bit longer by highway) and not available here, in Las Cuevas.

Who could resist?
"O.k.", I declared. "¡Estoy convencido!"

We made plans to pick them up for a ride at 10:15 Saturday morning to the mass, scheduled for 11:00, and after to the festivities. (No one really believed that we'd really leave at such a ridiculously precise time, but we all went along with the concept.)

At 10:20 Saturday morning, Sra. Chucha was ready. María and son were not to be found. We rode down the street to the highway, turned towards María's house, and found her by el vado, walking towards us, with Sra. Amparo and her daughter, Socorro. After turning around, we stopped in front of the house of Sra. Lupe, one of Sra. Chucha's many sisters, and offered her a ride. The van was able to comfortably carry all as we'd put in the rear bench seat earlier in the week.

By 10:35, we were off towards Tzintzuntan's venerable churches, set in a lovely area of ancient olive trees.

The Upper Las Cuevas Cinema Society

I was reading Todd McIntosh's blog, "Life In The Corazón" about the launching of the new, deluxe, VIP Cinépolis theater at Morelia's Plaza Las Américas. I left a comment, one long enough to cause me to realize that it was really the beginning of an entry for this blog.

We haven't been to a movie (in a theater) since we moved to the area in September, 2005. It's not that we haven't tried, it's just that the selections on the playbill are so...unappealing.

I don't think that First-Class reclining chairs, with Crepas de Sushi a la Cajeta are a big enough draw for me. They have to get some decent, interesting films. I don't mean Alvin and The Chipmunks Take el DF. Also the ticket prices are at least the same, or higher, to what we were paying back in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Lately, on various bus trips to Mexico City and Oaxaca and back, the quality of on-board movies seems to be rising They're not just the stock, chop-socky: Predator, Rambo Meets The Vampire Gang, and Danny The Dog Gets a New Leash On Life. Now there are some love stories, family fare, and Becoming a Man Aboard a Sailing Ship In The Summer While Losing My Virginity. There was a pretty good movie, which we saw twice, about the Lafayette Escadrille in WWI in France. It had these little aeroplanes in it. That was cool, once.

Now Todd, if you and Shannon are old enough (60 years +), you can qualify for an INAPAM Senior Discount Credencial that will give you movie theater discounts as well as half price bus fares between cities. You don't look anywhere near old enough, but Wait!, When you qualify, you can take the AutoVías bus to Mexico City at 1/2 price, while watching two free movies, sipping your BOING! natural fruit drink or agua embotellada. Sometimes, there's a sandwich, too. This is something to look forward to. Trust me.

No, nosotros los extranjeros of Upper Las Cuevas have the pleasure of seasonal movies under the auspices of our peregrinating friends and neighbors, Larry and Geni. Larry has rigged a projector to his computer so that we may watch quirky Film Classics, often of the Noir genre, beamed onto the white-painted walls of their Sala Grande. We sit in Director's Chairs, with cup holders, and munch popcorn while watching a knockoff version of Casablanca, for example. These are incomparable, home-grown type cinema experiences. I really doubt that Cinépolis VIP can even come close to equalling these evenings with our friends next door.

Capuchinos, Cortados y Canciones de Pájaros

Yesterday, sitting in the Café La Lucha, off the Plaza in Uruapan, we were sipping capuchinos fríos and cafés "cortados" (really cafés Americanos with hot milk foam on top, as served there)

As we enjoyed the strong, flavorful coffee, we saw an old man walk in. He stood in front of the table nearest the door and began to make bird songs. His only instruments were his mouth and throat. His skill was remarkable.

After a while, he came to our table and entertained and delighted us for a few minutes. We gave him a modest tip, and he thanked us with blessings.

After he walked away, we realized what an opportunity we missed. Three of us had digital cameras with video and audio recording capability. We'd have gladly given him a more generous tip in order to record him doing "Lullaby of Birdland".

Due to our oversight, you, dear readers, will have to be content with a photo of a capuchino frío.

Below is a slideshow of photos taken last year, in Uruapan's Parque Nacional Eduardo Ruíz. More, and better ones from yesterday coming eventually to this site.

Spot; A Dog of the South

"Life in Mexico for the retired American is not all cerveza and totopos with your guacamole. But the rewards are worth the occasional annoyances."

A recurrent theme here is that sometimes there're bugs in the guacamole.

So it was with mild disgust that we learned on return from our trip to Oaxaca, that the outside of our brick perimeter wall was (dis)graced by a perro muerto. My immediate instinct was to ignore it, for the bichos y los zopilotes would soon consume it.


X Marked The SPOT

That was not the case. As the week passed, the odor grew more fetid. I considered burning it with gasoline, but that would leave a big stain on the wall.
I had some calcium carbide, used in old miner's lamps, but I doubted that was enough to have any positive action.

Finally, the day before yesterday, I asked Sr. Mateo if he could do something about it.
He said that he's drag it off "arriba", and he did. I don't want to know where "arriba" is.

The smell still lingered at the spot where Spot once lay. I resorted to tossing buckets of cold water, heavily laced with Pino Sol. The smell is starting to dissipate.

I want to know why are the zopilotes so picky, and where were they when their services were needed.

Las Señoras Suben Al Cerro

Yesterday evening.
I'd just returned from an evening walk with the Señoras of the community, up the road towards Sta. Cruz. I'd gone out idly, just to take a little air. En route, I stopped by Sr. Santo's cow lot down the street, where there were two, newborn calves, a black and a black and white. They were eagerly suckling leche, while one mother cow licked her young, the other stood quietly, even as he lunged for the udder.

Down by the capilla, the ladies gathered prior to their walk. They receive a monetary encouragement from some governmental department. Their custom is to make this walk every Monday and Wednesday at 6:00 p.m.

I'd gone with them about a third of the way up on a previous occasion, but this time, walking paso a paso, I found it quite easy. I was surprised when the vanguard turned around before la última subida.

They conversed quietly among themselves in their small groups, or walked silently. They were in every type of physical condition and ages were from a child to an bisabuelita (Great Granny, I'd guess.) All are invited to participate, but los hombres almost never do so. I'm the only one I know of. When I once asked about this, I was told "Ellos prefieran sus cervezas." —They prefer their beers.—

When I said to María, who recently lost her mother, that the walking was "Buena para la salud.", she answered, "Buena para la salud, y para el alma." She was correct.

At evening, the views of the valley and the mountains beyond, fill the eye with their beauty, and gladden the soul.

The Dust of Tzurumútaro

Nose to the ground, north of the tracks, back on his feet...

(Where your blogmeister has an intimate encounter with La Tierra Mexicana.)

On the way back from getting a gas cylinder filled at Global Gas, we stopped in Tzuru just before the pollos asados al carbón place. I checked out the attractive watermelons nearby. The prices for them seemed high (I don't know, is 50 pesos a lot for a small one?) I decided not to buy any, thanked the man for the generous sample, and walked away.

Suddenly, the ground rose rapidly to meet me.
BAM! I hit the ground, my nose the impact point. I lay there a moment or two, assessing the damage. Susie came over and the watermelon man gave me a wad of clean toilet paper to stanch the copious bleeding. Mi sangre mezcló con el Polvo de Tzurumútaro.

I then went to the car, where I reclined, pressing a couple of wads of paper against my nose. After a little while, the bleeding stopped. There isn't much pain. I guess nothing is broken, gracias a Dios.

We went ahead and bought a chicken and a bag of ice to help if there's any swelling.

Once home, I cleaned up and changed clothes. Took a couple of Ibuprofen for starters. I don't think I'll need medical attention. (For a change!)

It was nowhere near as bad as the fall I took near Don Chucho's store in 2006. My appetite is unimpaired, and we're about to tuck into the great Tzurumútaro pollo asado al carbón.

I can't decide if I want a Tequila or a beer with it. Maybe both?

Later...

The pollo asado never tasted better. We ate the whole frickin' chicken. The salsa roja supplied by the roasters was unnecessary The accompanying slaw-like cabbage was clean and zesty.

Maybe this is a new technique for enjoying one's food to the max; something like burning down a house to roast a pig.

I had a beer, 2 more ibuprofen and a lie-down. Next, the ice pack.
Nose on the rocks, anyone?

Mexican Fireworks

On the Thorny Tree Refuge forum, we were discussing what made us want to travel.

" Many of us have travelled whether we wanted to or not -- being hauled across countries or continents by our parents, or being forced to relocate for some other reason. However, the fact that we are on this website after having been on the previous one would appear to indicate that travel is now in our blood. So, what made you want to travel? - "Kerouac2"

This was my answer, which I'll elaborate here. It's not the only reason. As a child, I lived/visited in Montreal, Quebec for a couple of years. Nothing exotic about that, really, except for a holiday to Quebec City.

But in another place, I was enthralled by a children's book, called "Mexican Fireworks" . (I'm sure that it was very romanticized and "unrealistic".) In my adulthood, I had the pleasure of seeing real Mexican fireworks.
Near the town of Tepoztlán, Morelos, I even saw the fireworks being assembled by coheteros create a "castillo".

The brilliant moment came the night of our arrival in Pátzcuaro, Sept. 28, 2005. It was my 63rd birthday and the 300-something years anniversary of the city. We went to the Plaza Grande just before 10 PM, where we stood amidst the cannonading and bursting pyrotechnics. It was a wonderful bienvenido.

¡Gracias, México!

Alcatraces y Cenizas

Yesterday, we experienced our first Mexican funeral. It was different than I anticipated. It took place in the small, somewhat isolated village of Sta. Cruz.

The deceased, the mother of a friend of ours, had died suddenly ten days before. It seemed odd that interment would be so long after death, but from our bereaved friend's laconic comments, we thought that perhaps the body was cremated.
This was the case, as we saw yesterday upon reaching the humble home of la difunta y su viudo.

The mourners inside were gathered around a black box a little wider than a shoebox. In it were the mother's earthly ashes. The box was on a chair, flanked by tall candles and lovely, long stemmed alcatraces lilies. A rosary was recited by the gathered friends and families.

We stood the entire time outside in the yard, then, when the prayers were over, went in to comfort our friend and her sisters and brother.

We then adjourned to the nearby church, where the Padre had already begun La Misa. The church was incongrously still festooned with Christmas decorations, including pink and white balloons on the walls. The Virgen de Guadalupe looked upon the congregants with a benevolent smile.

We'd been to several masses since moving here, but I'm not familiar enough with Catholic liturgy (especially in Spanish) to distinguish the variant types. To me it seemed that only at the end of the service was attntion specifically directed to the deceased and her family. Afterwards came the usual announcements by the Padre about fiesta dates.

We returned to the house, where we took seats and were served corundas de pollo con salsa y crema, y arroz.

When all had eaten, the debris was gathered and the folding chairs stacked inside. Most of the visitors left, except for the immediate family and a few friends.

We then carried several passengers to the panteón near Las Cuevas and Nuevo Rodeo.


The interment was brief. The viudo, an adult son, a young granddaughter and others scratched out a shallow hole in a grave mound. The black box was placed in the hole, and earth brushed over it. They said few more prayers, the Padre Nuestro, then a hymn was sung. The flowers were distributed over the grave mound.

The family then departed for Quiroga, some 20 minutes away, hoping to arrive in time for the next misa. We, instead, carried two amigas back to Las Cuevas in our van.

Clip Joint

I am not a vain person. So it is, that I prefer to spend a minimum of money on personal grooming. For me, it's whatever gets the job done.
Soon after our arrival in the Pátzcuaro area, our first landlords recommended a hair stylist. Guillermo is a fine gentleman, but in my mind, his skills were wasted on me. Let's face it: I just don't have that much remaining hair to warrant paying $70 to 80 pesos per haircut.

Neither do I want to go to extremes. Along one perimeter wall of Pátzcuaro's mercado are barber stalls of varying elaborateness or primitiveness. I'm not sure, but I think you can get shorn for about $20 pesos. However, the ambience of those places no me llamaron la atencíon.

I found a haircutter's shop on the side of the Plaza Chica which seemed to specialize in children's haircuts, judging from the colorful seats in the form of ponies, boats and airplanes. They did a pretty good man's haircut for about $30 pesos. But then, it disappeared. Out of business, replaced by a sombrero shop. What could be more appropriate?

Up around the corner, on Calle La Paz is Estética La Paz. It's one big room, staffed by attractive señoritas and señoras. How could I pass this up? They are efficient. I can go in, sit down, and emerge 15 minutes later all cleaned up.

I even trusted my neck to their razors. At the previous place, I was afraid of dire infections that might be transmitted by razors. At La Paz, (and probably at the others) I realized that they used a fresh, disposable blade for each client. (A side benefit is that it's not exactly an unpleasant experience when the lady barber applies the warmed, soapy solution to your neck and ears. Mmm.)

A haircut is only $25 pesos. That's currently $2.30 US. At that price, I can afford to leave a decent, but not ostentatious tip.

Los Compañeros del Panteón

Day of the Dead 2007

We'd not planned on visiting the local cemetary this year, but Alejandro, María's youngest son, accompanied by Socorro, a young woman friend, came to our house to invite us. About 30 minutes later, Javier, the 15 year old son arrived to tell us that the invitation was for the day, not the night, and that we should bring something to eat.

Perfect. I was about to put two raisin challahs in the oven. We could bring one of those and a dozen cinnamon rolls I'd made earlier.

The weather was beautiful, clear and warm. We arrived as Padre Serafin was beginning the mass. It was a long service.

Meanwhile, kids were running around playing on the wall, and a nieves vendor was doing a good business outside, on the road. It seemed as though limón, in a lurid green color, was the favored flavor.
After the lengthy reading of the names of los difuntos, we gathered by the stone wall for our lunch.

The picnic, organized by our friends and neighbors, was nearly as simple as it gets: frijoles de olla, sopa de arroz, chicharrón en salsa amarilla. I hate chicharron en salsa, but I was able to get some crunchy chicharron and thus avoid the slimy stuff. María and Rosa sang a very long hymn about Mary, Queen of Heaven, as they helped prepare lunch.

I broke the freshly baked Raisin Challah, saving the Cinnamon Rolls for a dessert. I made a point of saying a few words about the Latin origins of the Spanish word, "compañero/a". Compañeros are literally those who share bread with each other. The cinnamon rolls were especially coveted by our friend, María, but she "released" them so that others could share.

Little Carina asked me why I'd brought a camera but wasn't taking any photos. I told her I'd doubts as to whether it was respectful to take pictures in the cemetary. (That little girl is very perceptive and outspoken. She has now told us that she wants us to teach her English. I bet she could do it, too, if you could suppress her boundless energy for 30 minutes.)

She gave me the ok to photograph;"you can do that here, no one minds". That was confirmed by an adult.
The visit was climaxed by her discovery of a fat green, caterpillar, accompanied by girlish shrieks. After making sure everyone saw the creepy grub, she daintily folded a napkin around it and stepped on it. Bleaah.

After we left the cemetary, I felt renewed and revived. However, those feelings were short-lived the following day, as we began to itch from numerous chigger bites. I suppose they are another reminder that we are made of mortal flesh.

Senior Discounts Para Extranjeros

A while back, we learned that foreigners resident here, such as ourselves, could apply for and get Senior Discount Cards from the Mexican government department known as INAPAM. It used to be called INSEN. Now it's Instituto Nacional Para Las Personas Adultas Mayores

Considering the many economic benefits for nosotros los extranjeros that we already have, this seems an act of unbounded generosity on the part of the Mexican government. But we are loath to turn down discounts and free offers, especially when they come without any "catches".

In theory, we could have obtained these cards when we arrived to live here, but two years plus passed before we got around to it. There are many other, higher priority tasks to be accomplished before this one.

On Tuesday, we went to the office of the INAPAM delegacíon Morelia.

Mariano Jiménez #592, Esq. Av. Solidaridad, Col. Nueva Chapultepec, Morelia, Mich. C.P. 58260
Tel. y Fax: 01 443 314 35 22 Tel. 01 44 33 15 92 47

The process was very easy. There was only one client ahead of us. (There was only one worker at that point. A bit later, another came in.)
I explained what we had come for, and she asked if we lived here permanently. We showed her our FM3s and passports. We already had color fotos infantiles which we'd had made at Farmacia Guadalajara in Pátzcuaro.

The INAPAM lady didn't ask to see our birth certificates nor our comprobantes de domicilio, all of which we had brought, just in case.
We signed the cards, she glued on the photos, laminated them, and we paid 5 pesos each. That was it. It was very informal and non-officious.

They had run out of the pamphlets of affilated businesses that offered discounts. When and if those become available, ¿quien sabe? Meanwhile, it doesn't hurt to ask when shopping. We do know that some inter-urban bus lines offer 50% discounts on fares, although a limited number of seats are allocated to this. That alone, plus discounts at some farmacias are substantial benefits. Other Senior services are provided, depending on where one lives and availablity, although we are less likely to avail ourselves of those.

This 3 mb PDF file lists some of the benefits and affiliated businesses offering discounts, but it's focused primarily on México, D.F.

We would like to say "Muchas gracias al Gobierno Mexicano y a la Delegacíon INAPAM de Morelia por su generosidad."

Chasing the Shadows with Flowers

Sometimes gloom settles heavily on the psyche. It may be from lack of activity or perhaps from the weight of years, with its attendant ailments. Or it could be a vitamin deficiency.

But few treatments are as effective as a vigorous walk for an hour or more, preferably in the late morning. Now is the optimal time of year for walking, with clear, sunny skies and pleasant temperatures. But the splendor of the wildflowers that appear in September and gallantly resist the scarcity of rains has a specially therapeutic effect.

The flowers along the roadside dazzle with their colors of pink, gold and deep blue. The fields not in cultivation are spread out in pink blankets of cosmos. Girasoles (sunflowers) beam cheerfully on their long stalks. The mountains form a steady green backdrop to the impermanent but welcome floral displays of this season.

Today, after the sun comes over the hills and when the morning fog lifts, I'm going for a walk amidst the flowers.

Radiation Therapy

A few days ago I found antifreeze fluid on the otherwise shiny tile floor of our cochera (garage). After a brief day of procrastination, we took the Windstar into the radiator shop of the Refacciones Santa Clara, located on the Libramiento (free bypass to the Pueblo Mágico, Pátzcuaro. The Libramiento is the gritty, working part of Pátzcuaro, not mentioned in tourist guides.)

The radiator shop is across the busy street, where heavy earthmoving equipment is chewing up the sidewalks and widening the avenue, to the incessant noises of vehicle backup warnings.
The dingy shop has an old sign, "El Chumina". I have no idea what that means or if it's relevant to the present day operation. Its next door neighbor is the municipal car pound, populated by wrecks and tow trucks.

Javier, the Chief (and only) Mechanic of the Radiator Shop, listened to our problem and presented us with various options. In the end, only one seemed to make sense: pull the radiator and check it and its peripheral connections for leaks.

Usually we don't linger to watch our car undergoing surgery, but as we were already there and there was no waiting, we hung around. At times it was scary. I'd never seen our car's engine eviscerated before, accompanied by various gases and liquids hissing and sizzling as lines were disconnected. It all ran out onto the pavement and into the gutter. As the collection of bolts, screws and bigger parts grew alongside the car, so did my queasiness. But in watching him work quickly and dextrously, I had confidence that all would be well.

Javier would examine the undercarriage by lying on a large sheet of cardboard box.
After an hour and a half of dismantling, he pulled the radiator and took it inside to test in El Tanque. This is a painted metal tank with an overhead beam, spanned by a couple of narrow wooden boards. The contents of the tank would probably give the Environmental Protection Agency fits. A rubber cup or two was fitted over the inlet/outlet of the radiator, then submerged while a hose blew in compressed air.
The radiator passed the leak test. Much tension was relieved when one of the rubber cups blew off with a loud pop and shot out of the tank. We all laughed.

Meanwhile, during the dismantling, he'd found a cut line. How the line came to be cut is a mystery, as it is difficult to access. Measures were taken to prevent cutting the other line.
Then the reassembly began. Somehow this went faster than the disassembly. We went to the nearby food stand and got refrescos for ourselves and for Javier.

In about an hour and twenty minutes, all was assembled again, in a state closely resembling its previous one, except without antifreeze and Freon and a small loss of transmission fluid.
One hundred pesos to Javier, and he wheeled off on a bicycle to a friend's supply place for the antifreeze.

Next. we turned on the engine, and ran it a while to dry out the radiator and for a final check for leaks.
Our minds were silently turning over how much the final bill might be..."four hours hard work...no estimate...gringos inocentes...et cetera..."
In the end, the labor bill was $280 pesos. Nothing for parts. One hundred pesos for the antifreeze (we took the remainder home with us). We gave him 300 and called it even. About $27.45 USD.

The Secret Language of Plants

It's been found that plants are able to communicate amongst themselves in a complex but poorly understood way. If one plant in the network is being attacked by insects, it communicates with the others, who then fortify themselves against the attack.

There are vines of spiny chayote here that grow rapidly and in an almost aggressive manner. They quickly form intertwined networks, covering walls and rooftops in a green tangle as their ugly, spine-covered fruit develops. The gourds dangle like spiny green reptilian huevos. (A few weeks ago, we were given some boiled chayotes. Ugh. They were bitterly metallic in taste and didn't even smell good.)

But then, when millions of little grasshoppers come and start humping in an orgiastic frenzy, munching on the leaves to sustain their activity, the chayote vines are quickly reduced to ragged remnants. There goes the network.

If you were to walk with me in the morning along the Las Cuevas road, the valley enveloped in mist, plants of innumerable varieties sprouting from every crevice in the stone walls, lines of eucalyptus trees forming a fog-shrouded palisade against a backdrop of lushly mature maíz, you would wonder at what the plants were saying to each other. What piropos are passing between the macho tassels of corn and the female silk? There is an herbal oloroso, an odor of fecundity there.

In my more fertile fantasies, I imagine amantes slipping out of their casas in the dark of the half-moon, furtively meeting in the furrows to make pollen-dusted love amidst the corn rows.

The plants are whispering chismes as the tassels shake over the silk.

Jeepers, Creepers

We are fortunate to live in a region of a rich biota. Besides placid cows, noble horses, wonderful songbirds and soaring white egrets, we have the Dark Side of biology as well. Out in the rock pile in the back yard, and now scuttling along the base of the wall surrounding our compound, a fat lizard makes his or her way, searching for prey. I have no issues with the lizards, as long as they stay outside. Fat and shiny horned black beetles creep slowly under the burden of their carapace out on the "porch". Sometimes we find them inside. They seem to spend a lot of time on their backs.

The baño is especially congenial to creepers, owning to the moist environment and the floor drain that connects to the general drainage to the septic tank in the back yard. The concrete slab covered septic tank has two PVC pipes that serve to vent off miasmic effluvia, but look like periscopes on a land locked submarine.

The prevalent bathroom denizens are the pill bugs. They are small and harmless and make only a slight crackle when you squash them. Sometimes there are ferocious looking spiders of considerable girth. I would like to leave them unmolested so that they can devour the insects. In the end, I can't bear the thought of a nocturnal encounter with one of them.

Only once have I seen a scorpion. It was an itsy-bitsy baby, on the bathroom floor. I whammed the living crap out of it with my shower shoes. Last night, as I prepared for bed, I spotted a large, ferocious spider, camouflaged to match the brown curtain (near MY side of the bed) on which he/she was lurking. Its liquidation was a challenge, as I had to apply sufficient force to kill it without breaking the window glass. I used a paper napkin to delicately complete the shuddery task.

I made sure I inspected the bedclothes before slipping into bed, and spending a restless night.

A Dark Visitor

"It was a dark and stormy afternoon." one day last week. I went out to the veranda to watch the storm. There I had a surprise: a very large and dark Moth was resting on one of the carved wooden shutters. I went quickly into the house and got my camera. The photos do not do justice to this quiet and somber creature.

This morning when I went out onto the porch to turn of the light for our departing neighbors, I had a second surprise. There was a silent flutter of wings and a swoop as something flew into the open door. I thought it was a swallow.

Drat! I really dislike having birds in the house. But when I turned on the light, I saw it was the Moth.
Now, I have no problem with a temporary visitor, as long as he is quiet. But i wouldn't be pleased if the Moth were a female, looking for a place to lay eggs.

OOPS! There goes my sweater.