Well, this is my last week in Mazamitla. On Friday, I'm getting on the bike and riding toward Nogales. My six-month visa expires the first week of May, and that means I have to cross a border, so I picked Nogo, then Tucson. I'll dump the bike, try to sell it, whatever. I wanna go to South America, so I'll fly/bus/boat when I'm ready to go.
I'll miss this charming retreat. Except for the chickens, and the occasional cow going bump in the night, it's pretty quiet up here. I was able to finish seven of the 16 required classes for my MBA during my three months here.
I've got five classes to go, and of course the green business plan.
Of course, I have to credit my ankle injury. Couldn't have been nearly so productive if I hadn't been prone for two months straight. Thank you, god, for growing trees to provide shade on the street so that speed bumps are completely invisible.
I've started walking for pleasure, as of last week. A major milestone, or 'kilostone' as they translate around here. Now that I can hike the mountain trails, I'm leaving town.
Well, wish me luck as I nervously get back out on the highways (free of speed bumps) and byways (loaded with killer speed bumps) of Mexico. Next stop, well, I don't now. At a speed bump, probably...
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
By popular demand...
I've gotten a few requests to show more photos of the idyllic forested cabins of outer Mazamitla. I don't use my camera that much - too many error messages when my new camera talks to my newish computer - but here's a few:
Enjoy!
A misty morning outside my bedroom window.
The renegades, mowing and fertilizing without permission. Note the genuine leather upholstery. Ususally they're wearing their gang bandanas.
A shot from the living room window.
A nearby cabin. There are tons of these, empty and waiting for the occasional weekend 0r holiday. Or a wayward gringo such as myself.
A local family hauling wood, pausing for creekside refreshment.
Enjoy!
A misty morning outside my bedroom window.
The renegades, mowing and fertilizing without permission. Note the genuine leather upholstery. Ususally they're wearing their gang bandanas.
A shot from the living room window.
A nearby cabin. There are tons of these, empty and waiting for the occasional weekend 0r holiday. Or a wayward gringo such as myself.
A local family hauling wood, pausing for creekside refreshment.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Daniel Fortner, I've got your mail...
You gotta love small town life. Mazamitla is cute as a button sometimes...
Case in point #1: The local crime wave? The cows have gotten out, again. There's these two cows who apparently think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, literally. They're mad for grazing, and they'll stop at nothing. These cows are actually pretty enterprising, as well as athletic. I understand that they open a gate, then one distracts the horses while the other makes a dash to the creek, then they both jump the creek to get to the promised land: my front yard, where the really good grass is.
And boy, can they process. First time this happened, the lawn in front of my house was landmined with dozens of these super-sized Hershey's Kiss mounds the next morning. Steaming piles of cowshit as far as the eye could see, as far as the nose can smell...
Case in point #2: I went to the post office this week, to send a letter to the States. The post officer seemed unnaturally happy to see me. Since I was a foreigner, I must be Daniel Fortner, for whom she's been holding a package for god knows how long. I did my best to convince her that I was not Daniel Fortner, lining up our names side by side and pointing out the differences. Then she tried another tack - since we were both not from Mexico, possibly we knew each other? After all, how many people could there be who are not from Mexico? I tried to let her down gently, as she seemed so genuinely disappointed. She told me that if I met any other foreigners, to send them her way...
And lastly: Today was the Spring Festival, which means every truck in town gets decorated with pine cones and branches, and crepe paper flowers. Children dressed as butterflies and deer and mountain lions (I think) stand in the back of the trucks, hold on to the side with one hand and wave with the other as the procession crawls down the street. The younger ones sit, and you can only see the tips of their wings. Then about one child per truck starts crying, and the procession has to stop while mommy is found and a butterfly rescued. Since there's only about five streets, and road construction has closed two of them, pretty much all traffic stops for most of the day.
The parade is in honor of Spring Day, and it's a three-day holiday. I have discerned that Spring Day was Friday, but it's celebrated Monday, because no one wants to take Friday off, because Friday is the most relaxing workday. Anyway, an excuse to dress the children as butterflies and then keep the music going until 4 a.m.
Of the many things I've learned in my time here in Mexico, here are two important ones:
1. No amount of noise is bothersome if it's a weekend.
2. You are guaranteed to step in cowshit if you're coming home at 4 a.m.
Case in point #1: The local crime wave? The cows have gotten out, again. There's these two cows who apparently think the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, literally. They're mad for grazing, and they'll stop at nothing. These cows are actually pretty enterprising, as well as athletic. I understand that they open a gate, then one distracts the horses while the other makes a dash to the creek, then they both jump the creek to get to the promised land: my front yard, where the really good grass is.
And boy, can they process. First time this happened, the lawn in front of my house was landmined with dozens of these super-sized Hershey's Kiss mounds the next morning. Steaming piles of cowshit as far as the eye could see, as far as the nose can smell...
Case in point #2: I went to the post office this week, to send a letter to the States. The post officer seemed unnaturally happy to see me. Since I was a foreigner, I must be Daniel Fortner, for whom she's been holding a package for god knows how long. I did my best to convince her that I was not Daniel Fortner, lining up our names side by side and pointing out the differences. Then she tried another tack - since we were both not from Mexico, possibly we knew each other? After all, how many people could there be who are not from Mexico? I tried to let her down gently, as she seemed so genuinely disappointed. She told me that if I met any other foreigners, to send them her way...
And lastly: Today was the Spring Festival, which means every truck in town gets decorated with pine cones and branches, and crepe paper flowers. Children dressed as butterflies and deer and mountain lions (I think) stand in the back of the trucks, hold on to the side with one hand and wave with the other as the procession crawls down the street. The younger ones sit, and you can only see the tips of their wings. Then about one child per truck starts crying, and the procession has to stop while mommy is found and a butterfly rescued. Since there's only about five streets, and road construction has closed two of them, pretty much all traffic stops for most of the day.
The parade is in honor of Spring Day, and it's a three-day holiday. I have discerned that Spring Day was Friday, but it's celebrated Monday, because no one wants to take Friday off, because Friday is the most relaxing workday. Anyway, an excuse to dress the children as butterflies and then keep the music going until 4 a.m.
Of the many things I've learned in my time here in Mexico, here are two important ones:
1. No amount of noise is bothersome if it's a weekend.
2. You are guaranteed to step in cowshit if you're coming home at 4 a.m.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The prisoner of chickens
The Story So Far: Last month, I moved to the mountains of Mazamitla. This is a small resort town some 7350 feet in elevation. I chose a cabin about two miles from the center of town, a perfect place to concentrate on my schoolwork.
The cabin has a fireplace, a bedroom and a kitchen. Outside the cabin is a hammock and open space, a horse, seven chickens, two little creeks, and lots and lots of trees.
The plan was to walk into the town on occasion to pick up supplies, hike the surrounding woods and waterfalls, enjoy my new adopted town. But after one night freezing in the cabin, I decided that I needed a space heater. The search for a little portable heating device changed everything.
My first full day in Mazamitla, I get on the bike and drive toward Ciudad Guzman, the biggest city around, some sixty miles southwest of here. Now, there are speed bumps all over Mexico, in small towns and big cities, and sometimes just in front of a restaurant or variety store. Most of the speed bumps are marked, but a few are not. So I hit an unmarked speed bump and lose control of the bike. I wasn't going very fast, thank god, but the bike and I skidded on the pavement. My left foot was under the bike.
I have some nice strawberries on my knees and elsewhere. Nothing broken, nothing more severe than a sprained ankle. Very lucky.
The bike's okay. Fortunately no damage there. There were some people in the area that saw me crash, helped me up, helped with the bike, called an ambulance, got me a chair, etc. Nice folks doing the right thing automatically.
The paramedics cleaned my wounds and wrapped the ankle. They had some difficulty ascertaining I didn't have a concussion - for example, they asked what day it was, and I lost track of the calendar quite a while ago, so that was a bust. They asked some other questions that I answered in butchered Spanish. After some deliberation, they let me make my own decision whether to go to the hospital or back home. I gingerly rode the bike home, saying a little prayer each time I saw a speedbump. I guess it's the ones I don't see that I should pray about...
My landlady took me to the doctor the day after the accident. He cleans and re-wraps the ankle, gives me some instructions and pills for the inflammation.
So three weeks of laying around the cabin. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Repeat and repeat again. Listening to the three roosters brag about life with four female chickens. Watching the horse walk around nimbly, sure-footed in the broken field next to the house. I do my own laundry in the washbasin, hang it to dry on the wood fence and the cactus.
Every four or five days, I take the bike to town to load up on food, bring it back and stare at it. I wish I had learned to cook.
I started walking, ever so carefully. The ankle is coming along, and I can walk, as long as it's on flat, even surfaces.
Unfortunately, there are no flat, even surfaces anywhere. The driveway from my cabin to the road is steep uphill, unpaved and rocky. So steep I have difficulty going up on the bike. The road from here to town is cobblestone - all rounded rocks and gaps, lotsa gaps. It goes up and down, but mostly up, to town.
Yada yada yada - It's all complaining. In actuality I got a lot done - I'm now 1/3 finished with the non-thesis part of the Green MBA - and I memorized the speech of the chickens. I can tell whether it's Manny, Moe, or Jack waking me up at 3 am...
I swear. Can you imagine any other animal that's allowed to scream its head off, all day, and most of the night? That old thing about crowing at the crack of dawn, that's a lie. They crow at the crack of dawn over China, India, Gibraltar and Greenland, for chrissake. No sense of the appropriate time. I'm thinking of becoming a carnivore just for the damn chickens...
Anyway, my foot has recovered such that I could walk all the way to town yesterday. Woo-hoo! Freedom!
Mostly, freedom from my own cooking.
Another week or so, the foot continues to heal, I can begin to live the life I had envisioned. I've been a city boy most of my life, and happy for it. But growing up in Phoenix, I always had that hankering for the Tonto Rim outside Payson. Living in San Francisco, I pined for the pines of Tahoe and Yosemite. And now the pine trees are just outside the door. Soon I will walk among them...
The cabin has a fireplace, a bedroom and a kitchen. Outside the cabin is a hammock and open space, a horse, seven chickens, two little creeks, and lots and lots of trees.
The plan was to walk into the town on occasion to pick up supplies, hike the surrounding woods and waterfalls, enjoy my new adopted town. But after one night freezing in the cabin, I decided that I needed a space heater. The search for a little portable heating device changed everything.
My first full day in Mazamitla, I get on the bike and drive toward Ciudad Guzman, the biggest city around, some sixty miles southwest of here. Now, there are speed bumps all over Mexico, in small towns and big cities, and sometimes just in front of a restaurant or variety store. Most of the speed bumps are marked, but a few are not. So I hit an unmarked speed bump and lose control of the bike. I wasn't going very fast, thank god, but the bike and I skidded on the pavement. My left foot was under the bike.
I have some nice strawberries on my knees and elsewhere. Nothing broken, nothing more severe than a sprained ankle. Very lucky.
The bike's okay. Fortunately no damage there. There were some people in the area that saw me crash, helped me up, helped with the bike, called an ambulance, got me a chair, etc. Nice folks doing the right thing automatically.
The paramedics cleaned my wounds and wrapped the ankle. They had some difficulty ascertaining I didn't have a concussion - for example, they asked what day it was, and I lost track of the calendar quite a while ago, so that was a bust. They asked some other questions that I answered in butchered Spanish. After some deliberation, they let me make my own decision whether to go to the hospital or back home. I gingerly rode the bike home, saying a little prayer each time I saw a speedbump. I guess it's the ones I don't see that I should pray about...
My landlady took me to the doctor the day after the accident. He cleans and re-wraps the ankle, gives me some instructions and pills for the inflammation.
So three weeks of laying around the cabin. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Repeat and repeat again. Listening to the three roosters brag about life with four female chickens. Watching the horse walk around nimbly, sure-footed in the broken field next to the house. I do my own laundry in the washbasin, hang it to dry on the wood fence and the cactus.
Every four or five days, I take the bike to town to load up on food, bring it back and stare at it. I wish I had learned to cook.
I started walking, ever so carefully. The ankle is coming along, and I can walk, as long as it's on flat, even surfaces.
Unfortunately, there are no flat, even surfaces anywhere. The driveway from my cabin to the road is steep uphill, unpaved and rocky. So steep I have difficulty going up on the bike. The road from here to town is cobblestone - all rounded rocks and gaps, lotsa gaps. It goes up and down, but mostly up, to town.
Yada yada yada - It's all complaining. In actuality I got a lot done - I'm now 1/3 finished with the non-thesis part of the Green MBA - and I memorized the speech of the chickens. I can tell whether it's Manny, Moe, or Jack waking me up at 3 am...
I swear. Can you imagine any other animal that's allowed to scream its head off, all day, and most of the night? That old thing about crowing at the crack of dawn, that's a lie. They crow at the crack of dawn over China, India, Gibraltar and Greenland, for chrissake. No sense of the appropriate time. I'm thinking of becoming a carnivore just for the damn chickens...
Anyway, my foot has recovered such that I could walk all the way to town yesterday. Woo-hoo! Freedom!
Mostly, freedom from my own cooking.
Another week or so, the foot continues to heal, I can begin to live the life I had envisioned. I've been a city boy most of my life, and happy for it. But growing up in Phoenix, I always had that hankering for the Tonto Rim outside Payson. Living in San Francisco, I pined for the pines of Tahoe and Yosemite. And now the pine trees are just outside the door. Soon I will walk among them...
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Midnight McAbee 2000-2011
Midnight the kitty cat passed away one week ago today. She was eleven years old. Most of you know that she was suffering from liver failure brought on by a hunger strike.
About a month after I left for Mexico, Midnight decided to quit eating. She had lost 7 pounds by the time I returned for the Holidays. Though she would eat a little for me, and for others, she never regained her strength and eventually passed away in the lap of a friend. She meowed, and purred, up to the last.
I am grateful to those many who reached out to Midnight during these long last months: Hope, Mike, H, Tony, Matt, Beth, Luke. Thank you for making my baby more comfortable, more loved.
Midnight the talker. a sweet sweet cat. Always seeking my lap. or the crook of my arm. Always had something to say. I don't think she cared that you didn't understand everything, she just had to get it off her chest.
I'd like to spread her ashes at a place significant to her, but she and I lived in a lot of locations. As far as I know, she was born in the East Bay, as I got her from the Oakland Animal Shelter when she was less than three months old.
Her baby-first year was spent on the beautiful Mills College campus, where she both befriended and fought with raccoons, squirrels, a skunk. Mills was an idyllic setup for a cat, but a crappy place to work, so eventually I brought my tree-climbing little one to Russian Hill in San Francisco, where my baby grew up, slowed down little and eventually stopped leaping in the air for flies and string.
She was an indifferent receptionist at 1080 Chestnut, just happy that her daddy worked out of the apartment. I left the door open during the business day, but Midnight wouldn't come out of the apartment, unless I was out in the hallway too long. She would occasionally attending meetings of the board of directors: sitting at the table and voicing her opinion. The Board of Directors of 1080 Chestnut were amazingly tolerant.
Then it was off to the Presidio, where the neighborhood kitties made sure my now-pudgy little girl knew her place. Tough crowd, that Presidio.
Then a year in San Bruno, where she got her first taste of hanging out with Tika, aka The Other Cat. Midnight established herself as the Alpha cat, and Tika urinated to protect her space.
Then Daly City for only seven months. I was happy, living finally with my sweetheart of five years, and her nasty beautiful daughter Tika. I believe Midnight really enjoyed stalking and chasing little Tika. She knew I didn't want her to do it, so she took to attacking while Sungmi and I were out of the house, but she also couldn't tell a lie. We'd come home, and Midnight would do the guilty-walk to the isolation room. Sure sign of a kittyfight.
Then Tika would urinate in Sungmi's purse. Another sure sign of a kittyfight...
We had to spit the cats up, so I found a situation in Marin. I was occasionally afraid for my life there, but Midnight liked it well enough. Eventually, I hightailed it to Mexico, and Midnight went to San Francisco again. I left her to my good friend's embrace, Midnight's godfather H.
And then last to Alameda, "airlifted from the Tenderloin" a friend said, a return to her East-Bay roots to close the circle of her life. Mark's house, not far from the Oakland Animal Shelter, is where she spent her last days, being shuttled to the vet, getting brushed and attended to: Mark also works from home, a perfect situation for my little attention-hog. However, it was not to be, as she had already screwed up her liver, unaware that she was committing suicide out of heartbreak.
Goodbye, Midnight. I'm sorry I left you.
About a month after I left for Mexico, Midnight decided to quit eating. She had lost 7 pounds by the time I returned for the Holidays. Though she would eat a little for me, and for others, she never regained her strength and eventually passed away in the lap of a friend. She meowed, and purred, up to the last.
I am grateful to those many who reached out to Midnight during these long last months: Hope, Mike, H, Tony, Matt, Beth, Luke. Thank you for making my baby more comfortable, more loved.
Midnight the talker. a sweet sweet cat. Always seeking my lap. or the crook of my arm. Always had something to say. I don't think she cared that you didn't understand everything, she just had to get it off her chest.
I'd like to spread her ashes at a place significant to her, but she and I lived in a lot of locations. As far as I know, she was born in the East Bay, as I got her from the Oakland Animal Shelter when she was less than three months old.
Her baby-first year was spent on the beautiful Mills College campus, where she both befriended and fought with raccoons, squirrels, a skunk. Mills was an idyllic setup for a cat, but a crappy place to work, so eventually I brought my tree-climbing little one to Russian Hill in San Francisco, where my baby grew up, slowed down little and eventually stopped leaping in the air for flies and string.
She was an indifferent receptionist at 1080 Chestnut, just happy that her daddy worked out of the apartment. I left the door open during the business day, but Midnight wouldn't come out of the apartment, unless I was out in the hallway too long. She would occasionally attending meetings of the board of directors: sitting at the table and voicing her opinion. The Board of Directors of 1080 Chestnut were amazingly tolerant.
Then it was off to the Presidio, where the neighborhood kitties made sure my now-pudgy little girl knew her place. Tough crowd, that Presidio.
Then a year in San Bruno, where she got her first taste of hanging out with Tika, aka The Other Cat. Midnight established herself as the Alpha cat, and Tika urinated to protect her space.
Then Daly City for only seven months. I was happy, living finally with my sweetheart of five years, and her nasty beautiful daughter Tika. I believe Midnight really enjoyed stalking and chasing little Tika. She knew I didn't want her to do it, so she took to attacking while Sungmi and I were out of the house, but she also couldn't tell a lie. We'd come home, and Midnight would do the guilty-walk to the isolation room. Sure sign of a kittyfight.
Then Tika would urinate in Sungmi's purse. Another sure sign of a kittyfight...
We had to spit the cats up, so I found a situation in Marin. I was occasionally afraid for my life there, but Midnight liked it well enough. Eventually, I hightailed it to Mexico, and Midnight went to San Francisco again. I left her to my good friend's embrace, Midnight's godfather H.
And then last to Alameda, "airlifted from the Tenderloin" a friend said, a return to her East-Bay roots to close the circle of her life. Mark's house, not far from the Oakland Animal Shelter, is where she spent her last days, being shuttled to the vet, getting brushed and attended to: Mark also works from home, a perfect situation for my little attention-hog. However, it was not to be, as she had already screwed up her liver, unaware that she was committing suicide out of heartbreak.
Goodbye, Midnight. I'm sorry I left you.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Switzerland of Mexico
Dateline Guadalajara: I have two more weeks of intensive Spanish classes, then I will be leaving Guadalajara. I like this city quite a lot despite it being the second-most polluted city in Latin America (Lima, Peru is in first place). However, the guesthouse I'm living in is booked for February, and rather than scratch around for something else in the city, I've decided to take another track.
About 80 miles south of Guadalajara is a little mountain town called Mazamitla. At 7300 feet in elevation, this charming little town is known as "the Switzerland of Mexico" (except I don't think it ever snows there and I don't think the banks will help you stash your dough away from the IRS...).
I've found a cabin in the woods about a mile from the town and plan to live there for a few months. The house is surrounded by pine and other trees, has a little creek running by, and, well, not much else. Inside the one-bedroom cabin is a fireplace, a fully-stocked kitchen, modern plumbing, hot and cold water, and hopefully adequate Internet service.
Those of you close to me know that my precious cat Midnight went on a hunger strike about two months after I left San Francisco. Only through the heroic efforts of H, Hope, Luke, Matt, Beth, and Mike has she passed back into the world of the willing to live. I am happy to report that Midnight seems to be on the mend and is returning to her meowy self, albeit slowly.
My cat's illness clarified some things for me. I will be touring less and studying more this year in order to complete my MBA as soon as possible. I have turned in ten essays so far this month (only approximately 200 more essays and a thesis to go!) and hope that I can turn up the production, isolated in my little cabin in the woods. I believe that's also what Jack Nicholson's character said in The Shining...
For continuing my Spanish language lessons, well, as far as I know, I'll be the only gringo up there, period. Spanish will be my only means of communication outside the internet.
For exercise, just walking to town and back will be something of a challenge, as the area is very hilly. For a hike in the woods, all I need to do is open my front door, and turn left, right, or go straight. And I have asked about borrowing an axe to chop firewood and make kindling. My friends in Guadalajara are already laughing about my new "mountain man" status.
And I'll have the motorcycle for those days I want to go get groceries, or if I get tired of doing my laundry by hand in the washbasin out back. Or go on a 160-mile round-trip to a movie theater or bookstore. (Actually there's a Walmart only about 50 miles away. Too bad I have a typical liberal's attitude toward Walmanrt...)
I was chatting with a local about the size of Mazamitla, and I was told that the town has six taxis now, a point of local pride. And the annual flower parade takes close to a half-hour now, and not only because of disorganization.
I'm both a little scared, and a little excited, about moving from a city of 5 million to a cabin in the woods some distance from civilization. But there's a hammock in the back yard, so how bad can it be?
About 80 miles south of Guadalajara is a little mountain town called Mazamitla. At 7300 feet in elevation, this charming little town is known as "the Switzerland of Mexico" (except I don't think it ever snows there and I don't think the banks will help you stash your dough away from the IRS...).
I've found a cabin in the woods about a mile from the town and plan to live there for a few months. The house is surrounded by pine and other trees, has a little creek running by, and, well, not much else. Inside the one-bedroom cabin is a fireplace, a fully-stocked kitchen, modern plumbing, hot and cold water, and hopefully adequate Internet service.
Those of you close to me know that my precious cat Midnight went on a hunger strike about two months after I left San Francisco. Only through the heroic efforts of H, Hope, Luke, Matt, Beth, and Mike has she passed back into the world of the willing to live. I am happy to report that Midnight seems to be on the mend and is returning to her meowy self, albeit slowly.
My cat's illness clarified some things for me. I will be touring less and studying more this year in order to complete my MBA as soon as possible. I have turned in ten essays so far this month (only approximately 200 more essays and a thesis to go!) and hope that I can turn up the production, isolated in my little cabin in the woods. I believe that's also what Jack Nicholson's character said in The Shining...
For continuing my Spanish language lessons, well, as far as I know, I'll be the only gringo up there, period. Spanish will be my only means of communication outside the internet.
For exercise, just walking to town and back will be something of a challenge, as the area is very hilly. For a hike in the woods, all I need to do is open my front door, and turn left, right, or go straight. And I have asked about borrowing an axe to chop firewood and make kindling. My friends in Guadalajara are already laughing about my new "mountain man" status.
And I'll have the motorcycle for those days I want to go get groceries, or if I get tired of doing my laundry by hand in the washbasin out back. Or go on a 160-mile round-trip to a movie theater or bookstore. (Actually there's a Walmart only about 50 miles away. Too bad I have a typical liberal's attitude toward Walmanrt...)
I was chatting with a local about the size of Mazamitla, and I was told that the town has six taxis now, a point of local pride. And the annual flower parade takes close to a half-hour now, and not only because of disorganization.
I'm both a little scared, and a little excited, about moving from a city of 5 million to a cabin in the woods some distance from civilization. But there's a hammock in the back yard, so how bad can it be?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Catching up - who says I don't blog in a timely fashion?
A feliz Navidad in Guadalajara
I am sorry I haven't connected with everybody on this blog since the end of November. My December in Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta and Phoenix and San Francisco went by pretty fast.
For most of the month, in Guadalajara, I went to school every day, did my Spanish homework and Sustainability studies, and enjoyed exploring Guadalajara in my free time.
My Spanish is better, I'm approximately 15% finished with my Green MBA program, and Guadalajara is pretty cool, despite taking over from Mexico City as the most polluted city in Mexico. (Mexico City has been working on their pollution problems for 25 years and has met with some success. Guadalajara hasn't created a new park since 1982.)
In December, Guadalajara was is a state of constant fiesta. Mexico observed its bicentenial last year, as well as the centenial of their proletariat Revolution. These epochal events were celebrated with music in the plazas and art in the streets. My favorite art exhibit was when they closed a street downtown for two weeks to dump a slab of building wall into the street – purposefully damaging the street – in order to show... well, I dunno what the reason was, but it was definitely different to see a piece of art posing as the result of an earthquake. Another exhibit of note was the piece of art that resembled a dog frozen in a block of ice. Again, I didn't catch the meaning behind the symbol, but I do admire the passion to exhibit art that's a little out there. I can't imagine closing Mason Street or Sansome and digging it up to embed an art installation.
And of course, during the Christmas season, the city is hopping, with outdoor concerts, dancing, decorations and street art and multiple Santa Clauses – often several in a one-block radius.
Guadalajara is a big, ugly, pretty, smelly, dazzling, ancient, modern, crazy, loud city. There are a bunch of pedestrian malls and open plazaa in the Centro Historico, more or less the city's saving grace. Outside the pedestrian areas, crossing the street is a deadly game, typical of anywhere in Mexico. There are a few brave souls on bicycles, but the vast majority ride buses and take the metro. And hustle between the cars. Jaywalking is not a crime here, but neither, I think, is running someone down in your car.
Fun in the sun - swimming in the ocean the week of Christmas
Just before flying to the States to celebrate Christmas and New Years', I went with fellow students on a school-sponsored trip to Puerto Vallarta. PV is of course a notable beach town, pretty as all get-out. Besides the miles-long beach and swimmable ocean, there is a beachfront boardwalk, perfect for strolling away the evening. One of the students, an agriculture major from Texas, took to climbing trees to pluck the fruit and share with the rest of us. It would work this way: Mickey would disappear for a minute, then suddenly it would rain guayabas or apples or coconuts.
I finally had a confrontation with the police, resulting in economic loss. One evening in Puerto Vallarta, we were walking the boardwalk, trying to decide where to eat. With five of us, it was slow going, and at some point my bladder was going to burst. I stepped off the boardwalk and visited a secluded, invisible spot on the beach and relieved myself. Walking back up a set of stairs to the boardwalk, I was greeted by two of the local police force, asking what I was up to down there. Without thinking, I told the truth. Big mistake. They took my driver's license and discussed my sentencing. They told me that they'd have to take me to Zihuatenejo, some four hours away, for processing, it would take all night, etc etc. I kept saying, sure, No problem! I'll tell my friends not to wait for me, and let's go! Where's the squad car?
The officer told me three times that we could "take care of the fine" right here and now before I finally gave in. His initial bid was for 900 pesos, around $80 US. I wonder how many Americanos pay that kind of money, I wondered. I crossed my arms and said nothing, until he got to 500 pesos. I said my upper limit was 100 pesos, and after some wrangling, I paid 200 pesos to get my damned drivers license back.
Now I have two drivers licenses - my old one set to expire in March, and its replacement. Since I don't need the old one anymore, I figure this is a license to piss...
Landing a sweet habitacion in Guadalajara
When I first got here, I stayed in one of the many cheap, clean hostels in the city center. The first night, the hostel was completely full, overfull even, because of a holiday weekend. Five beds were placed more or less side by side in my room, each occupied. Fortunately, everyone decamped the following morning, and the hostel became blessedly quiet. The dorm room I shared with five guys became my private room... until at about 10 pm, when some dude was introduced into my formerly private room.
This guy was one of those can't take no for an answer types - He dragged me to a bar at 11:30 on a Monday night. I bought a beer for each of us, but he finished his in five minutes then bought four more beers. Though they were for “us” it didn't take much to convince him to drink all four beers while I finished my single beer. When I thought I had spent enough time sitting around an overloud underpopulated bar against my will, I got up tl leave, hoping to ditch him in the bar. Unfortunately, he tagged along, demanding we stop at a little snack shop on the way back to the hostel. He had six gringas - kind of a small quesadilla stuffed with meat. He bought me one, convinced I should quit being a vegetarian after 25 years.
And back at the dormitory he talked until I pointedly asked him to stop – it was either that or take a shovel to his head. Within a minute he was snoring so loud that no earplugs in the world would have had any effect.
Oh, hostels, what a wonderful world of entertainment...
Anyway, the next day I busted ass, saw about five places and found my own quiet, private room in a three-bedroom house run by a 50-ish couple. I have my own bed, my own closet, my own dresser drawers, for the first time in almost three months. And relative silence, for the first time since I left my niece's house in Tucson.
If you want to see this charming little house, some good pictures are at escapeguadalajara.com. In November-December I stayed in the green room, and now I'm in the yellow room, smaller but not in direct sunlight in the afternoons.
I am sorry I haven't connected with everybody on this blog since the end of November. My December in Guadalajara and Puerto Vallarta and Phoenix and San Francisco went by pretty fast.
For most of the month, in Guadalajara, I went to school every day, did my Spanish homework and Sustainability studies, and enjoyed exploring Guadalajara in my free time.
My Spanish is better, I'm approximately 15% finished with my Green MBA program, and Guadalajara is pretty cool, despite taking over from Mexico City as the most polluted city in Mexico. (Mexico City has been working on their pollution problems for 25 years and has met with some success. Guadalajara hasn't created a new park since 1982.)
In December, Guadalajara was is a state of constant fiesta. Mexico observed its bicentenial last year, as well as the centenial of their proletariat Revolution. These epochal events were celebrated with music in the plazas and art in the streets. My favorite art exhibit was when they closed a street downtown for two weeks to dump a slab of building wall into the street – purposefully damaging the street – in order to show... well, I dunno what the reason was, but it was definitely different to see a piece of art posing as the result of an earthquake. Another exhibit of note was the piece of art that resembled a dog frozen in a block of ice. Again, I didn't catch the meaning behind the symbol, but I do admire the passion to exhibit art that's a little out there. I can't imagine closing Mason Street or Sansome and digging it up to embed an art installation.
And of course, during the Christmas season, the city is hopping, with outdoor concerts, dancing, decorations and street art and multiple Santa Clauses – often several in a one-block radius.
Guadalajara is a big, ugly, pretty, smelly, dazzling, ancient, modern, crazy, loud city. There are a bunch of pedestrian malls and open plazaa in the Centro Historico, more or less the city's saving grace. Outside the pedestrian areas, crossing the street is a deadly game, typical of anywhere in Mexico. There are a few brave souls on bicycles, but the vast majority ride buses and take the metro. And hustle between the cars. Jaywalking is not a crime here, but neither, I think, is running someone down in your car.
Fun in the sun - swimming in the ocean the week of Christmas
Just before flying to the States to celebrate Christmas and New Years', I went with fellow students on a school-sponsored trip to Puerto Vallarta. PV is of course a notable beach town, pretty as all get-out. Besides the miles-long beach and swimmable ocean, there is a beachfront boardwalk, perfect for strolling away the evening. One of the students, an agriculture major from Texas, took to climbing trees to pluck the fruit and share with the rest of us. It would work this way: Mickey would disappear for a minute, then suddenly it would rain guayabas or apples or coconuts.
I finally had a confrontation with the police, resulting in economic loss. One evening in Puerto Vallarta, we were walking the boardwalk, trying to decide where to eat. With five of us, it was slow going, and at some point my bladder was going to burst. I stepped off the boardwalk and visited a secluded, invisible spot on the beach and relieved myself. Walking back up a set of stairs to the boardwalk, I was greeted by two of the local police force, asking what I was up to down there. Without thinking, I told the truth. Big mistake. They took my driver's license and discussed my sentencing. They told me that they'd have to take me to Zihuatenejo, some four hours away, for processing, it would take all night, etc etc. I kept saying, sure, No problem! I'll tell my friends not to wait for me, and let's go! Where's the squad car?
The officer told me three times that we could "take care of the fine" right here and now before I finally gave in. His initial bid was for 900 pesos, around $80 US. I wonder how many Americanos pay that kind of money, I wondered. I crossed my arms and said nothing, until he got to 500 pesos. I said my upper limit was 100 pesos, and after some wrangling, I paid 200 pesos to get my damned drivers license back.
Now I have two drivers licenses - my old one set to expire in March, and its replacement. Since I don't need the old one anymore, I figure this is a license to piss...
Landing a sweet habitacion in Guadalajara
When I first got here, I stayed in one of the many cheap, clean hostels in the city center. The first night, the hostel was completely full, overfull even, because of a holiday weekend. Five beds were placed more or less side by side in my room, each occupied. Fortunately, everyone decamped the following morning, and the hostel became blessedly quiet. The dorm room I shared with five guys became my private room... until at about 10 pm, when some dude was introduced into my formerly private room.
This guy was one of those can't take no for an answer types - He dragged me to a bar at 11:30 on a Monday night. I bought a beer for each of us, but he finished his in five minutes then bought four more beers. Though they were for “us” it didn't take much to convince him to drink all four beers while I finished my single beer. When I thought I had spent enough time sitting around an overloud underpopulated bar against my will, I got up tl leave, hoping to ditch him in the bar. Unfortunately, he tagged along, demanding we stop at a little snack shop on the way back to the hostel. He had six gringas - kind of a small quesadilla stuffed with meat. He bought me one, convinced I should quit being a vegetarian after 25 years.
And back at the dormitory he talked until I pointedly asked him to stop – it was either that or take a shovel to his head. Within a minute he was snoring so loud that no earplugs in the world would have had any effect.
Oh, hostels, what a wonderful world of entertainment...
Anyway, the next day I busted ass, saw about five places and found my own quiet, private room in a three-bedroom house run by a 50-ish couple. I have my own bed, my own closet, my own dresser drawers, for the first time in almost three months. And relative silence, for the first time since I left my niece's house in Tucson.
If you want to see this charming little house, some good pictures are at escapeguadalajara.com. In November-December I stayed in the green room, and now I'm in the yellow room, smaller but not in direct sunlight in the afternoons.
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