Saturday, November 18, 2017
Someone has stolen the Mexican Revolution.
Yeah, I know. Every Mexican politician makes the same complaint. But, that is not what is missing around here.
Revolution day is on Monday. 20 November. It is 117 years since forces rose in northern Mexico to overthrow the dictatorship of Porfirio Diaz. In a mere three days (by local reckoning), our little village will be celebrating the event that defined how Mexicans think about themselves, their country, and the strangers who live outside their borders.
In the past, stands and carts filled with Mexican flags, fake moustaches, and very loud fireworks would have spontaneously sprouted throughout town. The market is certainly there. The village is filled with tourists who have been disgorged from convoys of first class tour buses to enjoy the three-day weekend.
But not a stand is to be found. I had noticed the dearth of revolutionary merchandise on my walks and drives during the past two days. Just in case I missed something, I drove around the village and found empty space where stands are usually erected.
While I was scouting, I ran into my friend Jorge, one of my best sources of local news. He was just as surprised as I was that the stands are missing. Maybe tomorrow, he said.
That is a possibility. I have served on several projects with my Mexican neighbors. My northern neuroses kick in during the planning stage that nothing seems to happen until the last minute. But when it does happen, everything falls into place. It is a great patience tool for me.
So, maybe tomorrow there will be plenty of places to bedeck oneself as a Pancho Villa wannabe or a Emiliano Zapata doppelganger. And I always know where I can buy fireworks that will make the Battle of the Somme seem like an ambassador's tea.
Even if there is no patriotic paraphernalia to purchase, I know the local schools are ready for the parade in Barra de Navidad on Monday. On my Thursday walk, I saw one school taking a break from classes to rehearse their marching. As a Mexican teacher friend told me, marching always outranks arithmetic.
I missed the local Independence day parade when I was up north indulging in my 50th high school reunion. Covering the Revolution day parade for you will help me make my cute kids quota for the year.
At least, that will not go missing.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
There are two types of people who grease the wheels that drive communities.
One publicly pulls all the levels of power and sounds the whistle of accomplishments. You read about them in the newspaper, on their facebook pages, in social service agendas, on church calendars. And, yes, on their blogs.
Then there is the other type. They work quietly getting done what needs to be done. With absolutely no attention called to themselves.
Ronald Reagan used to say: "There is no limit to the amount of good you can do if you don't care who gets the credit."
Lee Yoast was that type of guy. I first met Lee just over three years ago when I was drafting an essay on the continuing drama of water and sewer responsibilities in a large portion of Barra de Navidad. It turned out to be a far more complex issue than I had thought.
Lee sent me an email and volunteered to give me a full briefing at his home. And "full briefing" was exactly the word for it.
He had schematics of the entire sewer and water systems in our little community. Where the pumps were located, which pumps were working, and which sewer lines were blocked. All color coded.
Because of his detailed knowledge, I was not the least bit surprised when he told me he had been a custom home builder in Portland, Oregon. The blueprints were a dead giveaway.
But, he did not stop there. For him, a problem defined was merely the first step to a solution. We started going through the possible ways to repair the system. He had been working with the public service employees responsible for the maintenance of the sewer and water. That gave him a lot of insight that I had not heard from other people I had interviewed on the topic.
He firmly believed that the best way to improve the infrastructure was to do what he would have done up north -- get to know the people with the political power to resolve the issue, and then work with them on the solution.
I was impressed. Here was a guy, who could have easily sat back in retirement and let other people deal with an almost intractable issue. Instead, he was willing to offer his expertise in a culturally-sensitive way.
All through our conversation, I thought I had seen him before. But he told me we had not met.
Two days later, it hit me. Lee was the guy who maintained the median strips leading into our town. I had seen him on his riding lawnmower tidying up our common home. Lee and his wife Christine had also erected a sign at the entrance of our village to welcome visitors.
When I approached him about writing an essay about his volunteer work, he emphatically said no. He was not doing the work for praise. He was doing it because it needed to be done.
Last Friday, I returned home and noticed that several flower arrangements were set in front of the welcome sign. It had the look of a memorial, rather than a beautification project.
It was a memorial. For Lee. On Thursday, he was riding his motorcycle north on the main highway when he suffered a fatal crash.
In the few days since his death, I have discovered several other important projects Lee was involved in. All of them important to the community. All of them conducted with silent dignity. And all of them reflecting his love of Barra and the people who live here.
When we are forced to face some of the harder facts of life, we can intellectually accept the irreversibility of time, but the emotional side of our logic seeks answers that simply cannot be provided.
Why? What if? I wish I had. What does it all mean?
Plato tried to make sense of our otherwise-unexamined lives by counselling: "Embrace your losses as fair payment for the surplus of being alive."
That is how Lee lived his life. Nothing could be done about the past, but he could quietly take hold of today and do his best, in some small way, to make life better for his family and those around him. It is a lesson we could all tuck into our lives.
Those of us who got to know you, Lee, are the better for it. And there are plenty of people who live here who will never know what you have done to make theirs a better life. And, I know you would like it that way.
As for me, Lee, I am going to miss you. And think about you everytime I see that sign welcoming visitors to our little town.
Sunday, November 12, 2017
"How can you afford to retire to Mexico? When my husband and I were there last year, it cost us $400 a night."
She worked in the computer division of our company. The year was 2009. I had just told her that I had finally finalized my plans to move to Mexico.
I thought of her comment last week when I headed north to Puerto Vallarta to spend the day with a friend and his wife. They were staying at Sunset Plaza, one of Puerto Vallarta's all-inclusive resorts. I had stayed there almost exactly two years ago with a friend (killing me softly).
Even though it did not cost $400 a night, it was what my fellow employee had in mind when she thought about the cost of living in Mexico.
Of course, I live here for far less than $400 a day. That is because I live in my own private resort in Barra de Navidad, not in an all-inclusive resort in Puerto Vallarta.
Wayne Kraft and his wife Arlene were in Puerto Vallarta about this time last year. I wanted to drive up and see them, but I was in the throes of dealing with Barco's death. When they told me they were going to be in Puerto Vallarta just after I returned from Europe, I decided I was not going to miss an opportunity to see them.
Wayne is one of my lawyer friends from my private practice days when I was a criminal defense attorney. I first met him when he was a bailiff for one of my favorite circuit court judges. He then became a deputy district attorney, and we crossed swords occasionally.
Criminal law is a bit like warfare. And criminal lawyers -- both prosecutors and defense attorneys -- often build the same type of strong personal bonds that are found amongst combat soldiers. And between some clients and their attorneys.
Poor Arlene had to sit through a full day of lawyer war stories. Lawyers can put any fighter pilot to shame when it comes to relating a battle tale.
Meeting up with Wayne was a bit coincidental. When he was still a bailiff, he told me that my client, who was about to be sentenced, was a favorite of the judge. He was one of mine, as well. I did my best to help Brad find a better path in life. During my brief stay in Reno last week, I met with him and discovered that life was going well for him.
Wayne and Arlene are quite pleased with the Sunset Plaza and its all-inclusive services. So much so that they intend to return next year.
I started to write that all-inclusive resorts feel a bit odd to me. But, I do not know why. After all, they are not unlike cruise ships -- whose praises I sing. And reading my post from two years ago, I found that stay to be very recuperative.
I am not very fond of Puerto Vallarta. It topped my list of prospective retirement spots in Mexico -- only because I knew it best. I soon discovered that it had all of the problems of a big city without offering the cultural offsets that big cities should. And each trip there simply confirms that my decision was wise beyond its years.
But I will return to see Wayne and Arlene. In fact, I may decide to spend a short vacation at the Sunset Plaza before then -- if I can find someone who wants to enjoy the pleasures of $400-a-night Mexico.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
On the eleventh day on the eleventh month at 11 AM (or so the legend goes) in 1918, an armistice was called bringing to a close the first act of the bloodiest war Europe had ever seen.
More than 18 million people lost their lives. But there was a greater casualty -- the promise that liberal progressivism offered Europe bled to death on the fields of Flanders. In its place, arose a Communist tide in Russia and a cynical socialism in western Europe that would soon do battle with an even more cynical Fascism in mere years from the signing of the armistice.
But all of that was to come. At the appointed hour on 11 November 1918, the guns fell silent. And, if there was not joy, there was relief from four long years of despair.
Initially, no one was interested in celebrating what had been one tragedy built on the next. But, the British, always willing to turn anything into a ceremony, were the first to honor the fallen dead. Starting in 1919.
The tradition spread through Europe and the Commonwealth nations. And even to The States where it fit in well with a growing sense of isolationism. A reminder that never again would American boys die on foreign soil.
Of course, American boys were soon to die in foreign countries. Lot of them. And still are. As are soldiers from all of the countries who honor Armistice Day. Or Remembrance Day. Or Veterans' Day.
This is the day that Americans honor veterans in general. (Memorial Day is for those who have fallen.)
But I am not in The States today. I am in Mexico.
Not surprisingly, Mexico does not celebrate on this day. It was not a party to World War One. It was still fighting its own revolution. But the Germans did their best to enlist Mexico in the war against the United States -- as a political diversion. Mexico did not take the bait.
However, the Canadians and Americans who are here in our part of Mexico joined today at 11 AM at Rooster's for a moment of silence, a reading of John McCrae's In Flanders Fields, and a singing of the national anthems of The United States, Canada and Mexico (even though, as I just mentioned, Mexico had no involvement in the war, and Mexican law prohibits the singing of foreign national anthems without the permission of the Secretary of Interior).
The program has become an annual tradition. And I always take part. Usually, as the poem reader. After all, I am a veteran.
It is the least we can do to remember the men and women who have sacrificed a portion of their lives (and often, their full lives) to the service of their country.
To all of you who have served, I say thank you. May your honorable acts be worthy of how we operate our civil society.
Monday, November 06, 2017
We apologize for the inconvenience. Our programming has been interrupted by inclement weather.
Or so Alaska Airlines would have us believe.
When we last talked, I was still in Reno waiting for my return flight to Manzanillo. Because I am trying to upgrade my frequent flyer status with Alaska, I had bocked a rather circuitous route -- Reno to Boise to Portland to Los Angeles, and then on to Manzanillo. That would give me just enough miles to earn MVP gold status.
I was originally scheduled to leave Reno around 3 in the afternoon. I then received a notice that the Boise flight was delayed just long enough to not allow me to catch the flight to Portland.
So I called the MVP concierge. I knew something was wrong because I was on hold for almost a full hour. But I was able to get on a flight directly to Portland with a departure time around 5 in the afternoon.
Roy took me to the airport. When I checked in, I discovered the flight had been decayed until 10. That time kept creeping later. The official word was that ice in Seattle earlier in the day had thrown off the entire Friday flight schedule.
I have seen these rolling delays many times. Inevitably they roll along to the point where the airline has no air crew hours left. The flight is then cancelled.
That would be disastrous for me. If I did not get to Portland for the 5 AM flight, I would miss my connection in Los Angeles, forcing me to wait for another week. Or so I thought.
II was lucky this time. The flight did not leave until around 11. That put me in my bed in the Portland hotel after 1 AM. Just enough time to nap for two hours before I had to get to the airport for my 5 AM flight to Los Angeles.
I have long envied people who can sleep on airplanes. I am not one of those people. The cabin is inevitably too hot and I simply cannot sleep sitting up.
As a result, even though I have been in Barra de Navidad since Saturday afternoon, I have been playing Rip Van Winkle for the past three days. My naps have turned into full day affairs.
But I am rested up and ready to jump back into my life in Mexico. That is, as soon as I receive my last piece of luggage.
My duffel bag decided it needed a vacation from traveling. The good people at Alaska discovered it tagless in Los Angeles. Fortunately, this week our once-a-week summer flights will be extended to two. That means I will have my dirty laundry on Wednesday, rather than on Saturday.
It also means, I will be able to drive up to Puerto Vallarta on Thursday to see a friend I have not seen in years. I will leave it at that.
After all, I have had enough surprises on my last trip. I should save one for you.
Friday, November 03, 2017
It's one of my favorite MASH jokes.
Season Five. While Colonel Potter is away, his horse gets sick. B.J. offers to call his father-in-law for help.
B.J.: Hey! My father-in-law has been in Oklahoma for 50 years.
Hawkeye: Once you're in a road company, it's very hard to get back to Broadway.
It is pure Larry Gelbart. But it is true. And I have family to prove it.
On Wednesday, I received a message from my putative daughter, Laura. You met them as guest stars in my little situation comedy I call life this past winter. She was touring The States and Mexico on a motorcycle with her husband, Josh, their son, Jeremiah, and their two dogs, Eddy and Culprit (moving to mexico -- driving the demons). By sheer coincidence, their travels had brought them an hour away from Reno.
She wanted to know if I was interested in lunch or dinner. Of course, I was. I would not miss an opportunity to see them again -- and to pull them on stage for another guest star turn.
We met for lunch yesterday afternoon. They had seen a little Peruvian restaurant on their drive into town. Just a short walk away. So, we did. Walk.
Then we sat. And ate. And talked. And laughed. Just as any good situation comedy family should. Probably more Simpsons than Donna Reed.
There is something about spending a leisurely meal with family. Especially, with Josh's sense of irony. Our thrusts and ripostes would have felt at home at the Algonquin Round Table. I know I did.
And then it was over. They mounted their motorcycle and headed off into the afternoon.
I suspect this will not be the last we see of our intrepid on-the-road band.
After all, once you're in a road company --- .
Wednesday, November 01, 2017
It certainly is not the Miami skyline. Not with all of that asphalt and the noticeable lack of water.
But Reno has a scenic attraction of its own. Like Katisha from The Mikado whose left elbow people came miles to see.
I am accustomed to the look. Neither Bend nor Salem are good-looking towns. From the air, they appear almost unfinished. But it is their surroundings that people remember.
For Salem, it is the Willamette Valley and the surrounding mountains. For Bend, it is the in-your-face grandeur of the Cascades.
Reno is a bit different. Sure, there are the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. But the local attraction is its horizon-defying desert and the nearby hidden (at least from Reno) treasure of Lake Tahoe.
Nevada is now my legal residence in The States. I guess it makes me a tax exile, but it is what passes for home these days. Without one, drivers' licenses are impossible to obtain, voting is difficult, and having an American credit card would be a chimera. That is why I traded the Western Meadowlark for the Mountain Bluebird.
And I will be trading the bluebird for the golden eagle on Friday afternoon when I start my trek south in a rather convoluted path. From Reno to Boise to Portland to Los Angeles to Manzanillo.
Where the skyline of Barra de Navidad will be a welcome sight.