by Lynne Martin
“It’s DONE!” he shouted. “I’ve just firmed up the reservation for the car to pick us up in Buenos Aires! It’s all wrapped up. We’re set for the next six months.”
We crammed final belongings into the groaning storage space. We wrapped up last-minute chores and returned house keys. Our friends and family treated us to lunches, dinners, cocktails, phone calls, emails, gifts, cards, and good wishes.
Finally, Departure Day arrived.
And suddenly, we were in our car. Just the two of us. (Time to get used to that!) Silence descended as we followed Highway 101 toward Los Angeles, two hundred fifty miles to the south. We retreated into our own heads, each considering the enormity of the step we had taken. We had finally made our plan a reality, which left us exhilarated. And terrified.
To break the tension, Tim turned on the iPod and hit “shuffle.” Folk-country singer Guy Clark’s “L.A. Freeway” filled the car and sent us into fits of laughter. We high-fived each other, shared a quick kiss, and at that moment, we knew we would be more than okay. Our ambivalence fled, replaced by the certainty that we’d made the right move and we were ready for whatever happened next.
Chapter 3
Mexico
A week later, weary from lack of sleep and the long cross-country drive, we reached the border at the Colombia Bridge. When the guard waved us through, we were enormously relieved. At last, we began the ten-hour drive for which we’d been preparing for months. And dreading.
For the first few miles, our nervousness steadily mounted. We saw nothing on the two-lane road but cactus and barbed wire. We were truly on our own. What if something happened to us out here? We were elated when other cars appeared. It seemed less likely that banditos would try to molest us with other people in plain sight. About thirty miles later, we paid the toll and rejoiced as we turned onto a large, secure highway. Even though the point of this was to “broaden our horizons,” it was still nice to see something familiar, at least to start off the journey.
Ironically, the most dramatic part of our experience driving through Mexico had nothing to do with roaming criminals—and everything to do with the locals’ complete disregard for traffic laws. In Mexico, the speed limit is meaningless. People blast by each other at terrifying speeds without the slightest hesitation. It seemed to us that Mexicans, like Italians, must go to Mass daily so that none of them will fear dying when hurtling past huge trucks on blind curves. Needless to say, we stuck to the slow lane, or what there was of one.
Our Mexican highway cut straight through a wide valley framed by stark, knife-edged mountains. It skirted Nuevo Laredo, Saltillo, and San Luis Potosi, three cities our advisors warned us to avoid at all cost. We saw two police/military barricades on the opposite side of the highway. The police were inspecting all vehicles. We felt safer. Only later did we learn that fake police/military checkpoints were a favorite ploy for kidnapping rings.
Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.
We pressed on, the scenery continuing to improve from the dusty mudcake of Laredo. Vast Joshua tree forests and stands of cactus erupted everywhere. We passed farms, ranchos, small towns, and half-built melancholy concrete projects that looked like some architect’s heartbreak. The skies were luminous and limitless, the Mexico we loved. What was there to be afraid about? We listened to music, laughed, chatted, snacked, told stories—and got lost at the turn to Saltillo, the spot everyone warned us about. We took a wrong turn and found ourselves at a toll booth in a desolate spot, the very kind of place we did NOT want to be.
A pretty young woman climbed down from her perch in the little building. She used gestures and Spanish that was basic enough for me to understand to slowly explain how to make a U-turn on a gravel cart track up the way and reenter the tollway in the correct direction. She then charged us for taking the wrong exit, of course. “Adiós!” she called as we beat it back to the freeway.
As we continued, the terrain grew familiar. Green fields replaced cactus forests. The little villages began to appear with their BIG topes (speed bumps) and minuscule stores that sell everything. We grew happy at the sight of makeshift kitchens dishing out tamales, tacos, and corn on the cob to the locals sitting at long tables covered with colorful oilcloth.
At last, we came upon a San Miguel roundabout that featured a heartfelt but badly wrought heroic caballero statue in its center. Tim ratcheted up the Mexican rancho music on the iPod, and we danced in our seats. We rolled down the windows to inhale that unique Mexican aroma of tortillas cooked in lard, chopped and fried chilies, garlic, and onions, and a dash of Tabasco diesel smoke thrown in for added kick.
We had made it!
***
We were kicking off our worldwide escapade with three months in San Miguel de Allende, one of our favorite haunts. We had owned a house there at one time, so we had friends and a comfortable familiarity with the city of eighty thousand. Again, even though we wanted to venture out of our comfort zone, we thought it would be good to start with something a bit more recognizable. Sort of a dry run for the adventures that awaited us elsewhere.
The evening we arrived, we negotiated the first traffic circle and joined the ring road, which traces the top of a neighborhood that cascades into the town. Typical San Miguel—tile-roofed houses clinging to the sides of the hills, each capitalizing on the view. Tiny family-owned tiendas are on almost every block. They are dark little warrens, some without any signs at all, crammed with a hodgepodge of things neighbors might need in a hurry: bottled water, mops, snacks, sewing needles, motor oil, milk, a few limes, beer. The road is punctuated with car and tire repair shops, plant nurseries, brickyards, little Mexican houses behind tall adobe walls, and a few half-filled condominium complexes.
The vista stuns us every time we turn the first corner. In the afternoon, the lake that lays below the hills of the town several miles away shimmers, the central cathedral glimmers like a pink monarch’s crown. La Parroquia, as it is known, is the symbol of the town, a church with a façade remade in the nineteenth century by a local builder who put his own spin on the gothic style he’d seen only in photographs. There’s nothing else like it in Mexico. Shades of pink, gold, terra-cotta, and mustard glance off the domes of other venerable churches dotting San Miguel. Red tile and verdant rooftop gardens with bougainvillea dripping down their railings tie the whole view together.
Tim handles most of the international driving while I “nagrivate,” the term we invented for my explaining what I’m seeing on the screen by saying calmly and quietly (or, well, sometimes not so quietly) things like, “At the next junction you’ll make a dogleg and continue through a small lane, then make an immediate right.” To which I’ll get a grunt indicating the driver’s understanding. I act as the color commentator and operate Victoria, our GPS, who speaks with an upper-class British accent. As you’ll soon see, she was destined to become the third most important character in this book.
Although drivers in San Miguel are courteous and move slowly, anything can happen on the bigger roads. A bicyclist, dog, family of five, horse, or cow can suddenly appear out of nowhere on the highway. More than once, trucks, ignoring the light, have headed right for us, and at any moment a Mexico City hotshot in a big SUV may bolt from his driveway and squeal out in front of us without ever glancing in our direction.
I have learned not to gasp or scream in these instances, because my histrionics worsen Tim’s heart palpitations. My alarmed noises are one of very few habits that make him snap at me. (When we got together again, it didn’t take me long to learn to control my impulses.) In Mexico—and, as we would find out, in a lot of countries—it’s also a good idea to drive sober and in daylight whenever possible. Praying probably helps, too.
The ring road ended at a T intersection that would make even champion race car driver Mario Andretti cringe. Its elaborate turning lanes were not designed very well, and the left turn gives us a thrill every time as our heads swivel trying to see cars, trucks, and motorcycles hurtling in our direction,
unaware of the newly installed traffic lights. We survived it again, and were soon greeted by the guard at the gate of the private community where our friend Sally Gibson lives.
Sally had invited us to mind her gorgeous art-filled colonial home with its astounding views, luscious garden, and a full-time staff of three. We had considered house-sitting as one of the options we might employ as we moved around the world, so we thought this would be a great way to try it out. It was an ideal situation, a luxurious place of peace and respite, where we could relax and plan our future. It promised us tranquility after so much excitement. And it was free!
There was one minor catch: Sally has five huge exotic parrots, fourteen canaries, six cats, and Webber, her big, sweet golden retriever. The staff thankfully attended to the waste products of the menagerie, but we were their temporary masters, in charge of their emotional welfare and physical safety. Not an easy feat. We had visited Sally on many occasions, attending her sophisticated parties and admiring her pets from the distance of a couple glasses of wine. Still, since we’re both very fond of animals, we looked forward to performing our duties.
As night fell, we climbed Sally’s driveway to assume our new roles as their guardians. We found the key and opened the huge carved wood doors into the courtyard. It was awash in lush plants, anchored by a murmuring fountain splashing into a miniature river that ran the length of the aromatic garden. Sally, who is a completely charming Southern belle, had lived in San Miguel for almost thirty years. She seemed accustomed to living in such luxury, as do most Americans who have moved their lives to Mexico. Living well in San Miguel costs much, much less than it does in other parts of the world!
Under the overhang, comfortable woven wood and leather lounges decorated with colorful pillows and throws were arranged with carved tables and filigreed iron lamps to accommodate conversation groups. Large lighted antique paintings with bird themes accented the recesses around the patio. I sighed, “Oh, darling, we’re here at last. We’ve done the right thing. This is heaven. We’re free!”
Then all hell broke loose. Webber, seventy pounds of panting, barking enthusiasm, very nearly knocked me off my feet. Two black-and-white cats sped past us and disappeared into the pitch-blackness of a country road. The feathered community jumped in as well. Five enormous parrots screeched their disapproval at our invasion, while fourteen canaries, divided into five cages scattered around the house, played backup singers for the cacophony.
Tim enticed the escapees to come inside using the cat-wrangler’s age-old trick of tapping on a cat food can, while I covered up the canaries for the night and secured the other felines. It took both of us to drape the heavy serapes over the huge parrot cages, their signal to go to sleep. Chickie, the oldest, wiliest, and most verbal, acted like a three-year-old resisting bedtime. As Tim reached up to throw the serape over the top of the cage, Chickie poked his large, sharp beak between the bars, grabbed the fabric, and held on tight. The ensuing struggle might have been amusing to someone neither exhausted nor in need of a drink, as we desperately were. After proffering a diversionary banana, we finally succeeded in covering up the noisy devil. As we left the atrium, he was grumbling, “Chickie, Chickie, hola! Chickie ¿cómo está?”
At last, we poured ourselves a drink and settled into our suite with its canopied bed, big bath, and private terrace, ready to enjoy a few weeks of pure pleasure and a break from the pressures of the last six months. This was a great time and place to celebrate our new life and start making concrete plans about the next couple of years.
On our first full day, we fell into our routine easily. First, there was the grocery run to the big store, so we’d have the essentials that make us feel at home—good coffee, wine, lunch goodies, soup, pasta, and condiments we particularly liked. Several years before, a big chain had opened the huge supermarket outside the city center. Practically everyone in town showed up on opening day to gawk at the big-screen TVs, browse the clothing department, and marvel at vast vegetable, dairy, and meat displays. The store departed remarkably from traditional Mexican shopping, in which one stops at the chicken store, the fish store, and the downtown vegetable market several times a week. They don’t pile purchases in large grocery carts and drag home a week’s worth of groceries south of the border. The convenience of a large store offering so many choices has probably eroded the bottom line of the tiny tiendas that provide handy access to household necessities, but I suppose that old habits and deep loyalties, along with the paucity of cars, probably protect those little stores from financial ruin.
Our favorite shopping venue, though, was still the local Tuesday market. Held in a big dusty parking lot behind a warehouse, it combined a tented flea market, farmers’ market, and a black market of pirated CDs and DVDs. Its vendors sold fresh chicken, meat, and fish, and gorgeous veggies, fruits, herbs, and flowers. Those guys can bone a chicken or a fish in a flash while carrying on a rapid-fire conversation with the guy in the next stall and never miss beat. You’re especially in luck if you’re in the market for a kitchen table or a dresser, a bridle for your mule, some new underwear, or a pair of imitation Chanel sunglasses. There is very little you can’t find.
Our last stop was always a stall where a woman from the campos wielded a knife the size of a scythe, whanging leftover carnitas (succulent hunks of rotisseried pork) into tiny pieces. She would grab a fat corn cake, which resembled a pita bread but without any healthful attributes. (Warning for the diet-conscious: there is lard involved here. A lot of lard.) She would slash the bread, fill the gordita with the pig meat and the diabolical salsa of your choice, wrapped it in grease paper, and hand it over. She charged about 20 pesos (about $1.50) a pop for the gorditas de migajas. We would gently nestle them into big shopping bags that sport Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera’s wildly colorful wife with the unibrow, or Our Lady of Guadalupe, and scurry home to wolf them down with a cold beer.
While we’re on the topic of domestic details, I should tell you that it took us some time to become accustomed to the way many North Americans live in San Miguel. We learned that going to the market was no longer one of our “regular” chores, as it had been for us when we lived there years ago. I found this to be one of the most attractive aspects of our new luxurious situation, because while I love planning menus and cooking, going to the market regularly becomes tedious after doing it day after day. But those are necessary steps that must be taken before the fun part, cooking, begins. However, Sally’s staff more or less handled that while we were there. It was sheer luxury to have another person take charge of that routine for a change, and we were grateful to them for it.
In addition, since Mexican water can wreck a gringo’s stomach, and vegetables are grown in that water, all uncooked food must first be treated with disinfectant. This involves soaking lettuce, tomatoes, onions, herbs, and anything else eaten fresh or unpeeled in a sanitizing solution. It’s a time-consuming, drippy process, but essential. The little brown disinfectant drops do not affect the food’s flavor, but they guarantee that the diner will avoid a long, unpleasant relationship with his or her toilet. Using only bottled water for drinking in Mexico goes without saying. Using it for brushing teeth is also a smart habit.
Almost all the North Americans hire local cleaning and gardening help at least once or twice a week, as Sally did and as we had when we owned a house there. Not only is it inexpensive, it’s almost considered obligatory for anyone who can afford it to do so, because many Mexicans need the work to feed their families. Mexico is a poor country, and in a tourist town like San Miguel, most local families depend on domestic or hospitality industry jobs because there is really no other industry to support the town. Many expats like Sally have staff who come every day.
The second morning of our stay, the dignified Angelica, in her correct beige slacks and crisp white shirt, arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m. She made the coffee, fed the dog, and sent Lupe, her assistant, to her own domain in the laundry area with instructions for the day.
Soon, we h
eard a gentle rap at our door. Angelica asked me, in Spanish modified for my limited abilities, what we would like for breakfast and where we should be served. We asked for cereal, fruit, and coffee on the terrace. On this beautiful day, we felt very special when our Wheaties and bananas appeared, beautifully arranged on a nicely set table near the fragrant garden backgrounded by views of the Mexican hills. Ponciano, the majordomo of the house, rhythmically clipped a hedge near the graceful bronze statue that served as a fountain.
When Tim had finished his breakfast, he rose, picked up his bowl, and took a step toward the kitchen. Angelica, who was straightening a cabinet nearby, turned, looked at him, and shook her head slowly. Nooo. He learned an instant lesson in how Mexicans protect their jobs. He cleared his throat nervously, put down the bowl, excused himself, and casually sauntered away for a garden stroll as if he had been expecting to do that all along. I controlled myself just long enough to get to the other part of the house before collapsing in laughter at his surprised face. Our training in gracious living had begun.
It always takes us a day or two to get into the rhythm of San Miguel, a pace that agrees with us. The warm terra-cotta colors are comforting and relaxing. Lingering over lunch and taking a little siesta some afternoons changes us from busy travelers into people who are pleased when we can accomplish just one errand a day. Life seems to get in the way of progress down there.
But I was determined not to let that happen this time. “Tim, I think we should get a move on this morning,” I chirped over breakfast the second day. We were munching Angelica’s breakfast tacos: creamy scrambled eggs and fresh salsa rolled into corn tortillas with chorizo and fresh mangoes on the side. “We need to drop off some prescriptions at Chelo’s, and then I know you’d like to say hi to Marcia. She emailed me about some new skirts and tops she has in the store. We should check out what new movies Juan has, and it would be great if we could run into the mercado for a big bunch of fresh flowers! Oh, and we need some candles from the mortuary.”