"Homeward" Bound

In a few days we'll leave Guanajuato for five weeks in the States. Recently I've heard Barry say to various people, "We're heading home for a few weeks."

"Home?" I'd think. "But is Eureka home? Or is Guanajuato home?"

"I don't think about it much," Barry said, when I asked him. "Does it matter? Heck, I feel like our van is 'home.'" He's referring to our beloved Westfalia van, which at the moment resides in California, but will be the conveyer of our belongings sometime in the next year when we move more of our worldly goods to Mexico.

But to answer Barry's question, "Does it matter if we know where home is?": I guess there's no reason it has to matter, but I'd love to know. I like decisions made, uncertainties clarified. Unlike Barry, who lives more lightly, freer of categories and definitions and labels.

Ironically, for a couple in our 50s and 60s, our "home" in Eureka isn't even ours. It's a funky second-story apartment that looks like somewhere a graduate student would live. But it is charming and cozy.

I'm looking forward to certain aspects of the States, and feeling a little guilty about that. I want Guanajuato to be completely satisfying in every respect, yet there ARE things I miss from time to time. Certain people. Baths. My bicycle. Our portable hot tub. Easy access to books. I have certain rituals, too, that I'm fond of in Eureka: the various places where I shop for food, the library, my favorite roads for bicycling, running or skating. These are my anchors. I'm in the process of creating similar rituals in Guanajuato, but they're less established.

We'll bring the hot tub and our bicycles down to Guanajuato in the van, but it hasn't happened yet.

"Are you moving to Mexico?" people ask. "I don't know," I answer. "It's a work in progress. Not just the house...but us, too."

I notice, however, that I WANT to feel like Guanajuato is home, more than I want Eureka to be home.

Making A Difference?

The last few weeks, I've been working on translating a business column I wrote for my local newspaper in the U.S., into Spanish. The article is about how to motivate staff when you lack the budget to give raises or bonuses. I had given my teacher E a list of my columns, and together we chose this one as the best to work on. My goal, with E's help as teacher, writing coach, and editor, is to publish articles in Mexican business magazines.

The project is yet another interesting window into culture. For one thing, I have yet to find the business magazine that is the right fit. So far, Mexican business magazines seem to focus on high-level, abstract subjects such as what the economy might do, the effect of a new law on business, or a profile of this or that business leader. Nothing on anything as practical and fundamental as how to motivate employees.

Even without a clear target magazine, I wanted to translate the article, so I set about doing so, translating my list of bulleted examples of how people can be supported and motivated without financial compensation. The list included 12 factors including recognition, creativity, autonomy, authority, sense of accomplishment, sense of fun, and others.

In one paragraph, I made the point that different people are motivated by different things. A window view, for example, might motivate one person more than another. "A window view?" E frowned. That wouldn't be a motivator in Mexico. We discussed it, and ultimately I deleted it.

But the biggest stumbling block came when we reached my point that "making a difference" could be a motivator. "Haciendo una diferencia?" E asked. "What do you mean?" I explained the idea that you feel your work has positive impact, that you're helping another. "Like you," I said, trying to come up with an example close to home. "You're making a difference by helping your students learn Spanish. You not only are helping them learn the language, you're indirectly helping to narrow the cultural gap between the U.S. and Mexico. And you feel positive about that, right?"

Yes, she understood my example, but she still didn't think "making a difference" would be a valuable addition to the article. Neither did another teacher I consulted.

Was it a misunderstanding of language? If I had used a different phrase, would E have thought I should include it? I don't think so, because E is quick to offer other turns of phrase. I tend to think, rather, that the very idea of "making a difference" is a concept that has meaning in the U.S., in a way that it does not in Mexico.

I'm not drawing a firm conclusion here, but this is my hunch.

House Charming

I have never been a person who had "dream house" fantasies. In the many apartments and houses where I've lived over the years, both before and with Barry, I've always wanted--and created--coziness and charm and a sense of comfort, but I never cared if the particular dwelling was perfect. In Vancouver, I lived in an apartment above a TV repair shop, next to neighbor loggers; in Boston's historic North End, in an "unremodeled" walk-up that at the time (late 70s) still had no bath or shower (I resorted to city-subsidized community showers, available from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., down the street, for a small fee). The last home Barry and I owned before Guanajuato, a Spanish-style house on Margarita Avenue in Palo Alto, had ugly stucco ceilings. Although I wasn't thrilled with them, I didn't think it was worth the expense to redo the ceilings. I was happy enough.

Barry and I joke about suffering from "Town Charming," the fantasy that some other town, far away in another state or country, will satisfy our every longing and dissipate our every problem. (Over the years, Boulder, Eugene, and Santa Fe were among our Town Charming candidates). I've also had Job Charming from time to time. And Body Charming! That one followed me around for years, er, decades. But House Charming, I never caught. A relief, I always thought; no room for envy, a state for which I'm easily disposed.

But then came Guanajuato and the only major remodel we have ever faced, and until recently (like, yesterday) I was, daily, catching the House Charming disease in ever greater increments.

"You really should go see other houses that David has done," we've been told. "The owners are always happy to show off their home and his architectural creativity." And I did see one. But when I suggested to Barry that we visit others, he balked. "We already have too many choices," he said. "We'll just start wishing we had done things differently, or feeling envious. We'll have more arguments." We had only just resolved an argument about what color to paint the Sky Room, our room on the roof, an argument that simmered and bubbled for days.

Our argument surprised me. I once read a story about a woman who fell in love with a man who said to her, over their first dinner together, "All colors make me happy, even gray." I would fall in love hearing that line, too, I thought. I love color. All colors.

Or do I? When it came to the Sky Room, I had no idea how stubborn and partisan I could be about the "right" color, the "only" color. It took multiple visits from David, bringing multiple sets of sample swabs, before we finally settled on a shade of green we could both live with. And here we've lived in a funky apartment in Eureka, California, with rooms a vague, uninspired off-white, that after six years we still haven't even thought about painting.

When it came to painting the outside walls of the Sky Room, we decided to ask David-the-mediator to choose the exterior color. He came up with periwinkle blue, the color of a house up the street. I had a suspicious feeling rumbling around me that he picked that shade because Barry said he liked it. "No, it was YOU who recommended it to David," Barry said when I told him.

"It's crazy," I said to Barry a couple of evenings ago as we sat on our new terrace, also painted periwinkle blue. "I never used to worry about choices in house design or color. It must be because we're spending money on every decision and I'm afraid of making a mistake." Already I have made mistakes; I forgot to ask Maestro, our foreman, to insert the beautiful tiles my parents gave me when my family lived in Pakistan during the Sixties, into a tile wall we created on the terrace. Barry and I discussed asking Maestro to redo part of the tile wall, but I felt it was too self-indulgent. There will be another place for the Pakistani tiles. But I still feel a bit rueful.

Barry said, "I'm sure by the time we're done, we'll look around and wish we had thought of something else we could have done here or there, and say, 'Oh, if only we had...' and 'Why didn't we...?'"

I keep reminding myself, a home is important. But it's not THAT important. It's only a home. It doesn't have to be perfect, which is good, because it won't be.

Goal-setting in Mexico

I went to see L a couple of days ago. She is the manager of Casa Constancia, a pension where Barry and I have stayed several times. We sat in her kitchen drinking camomile tea, and I asked her if Mexicans made New Year's Resolutions. "Oh, yes," she said. "'Propositos.' Some make them, but don't keep them, others make them and do." She also explained that Lent ("Cuaresma") was a time, like for some in the USA, where people give up something.

Did she have a New Year's Resolution? I asked. Yes, hers was to take over the running of the pension by herself. Her ex-partner and now housemate, J, is affable enough, but leaves the bulk of the work managing the pension to her. L, like most Mexican women I've met, has rather minimal standards when it comes to men. If the guy works, doesn't drink too much, doesn't screw around, and doesn't beat her up, he's considered pretty good material. In J's case, however, though he's nice enough, is rarely employed. L, meanwhile, has a fulltime job working as a secretary for the Public Works Department of the state, on top of which she has the pension that she manages. She gets home from her job and cleans. And cleans. She has hired her sister to help clean too, though J complains about that.

One weekend when we were staying there, J took off on a two-day pilgrimage. "It's good for reflection," he said. "What about L?" I asked pointedly, since she wasn't going; she would stay back at the pension, cleaning."Doesn't she like reflection too?" He laughed sheepishly.

Now, I asked L, "How are you going to take over the pension?" I didn't see why J would be motivated to leave; he has all the basics covered. "I'm going to talk to him, and to the owner," she said. She also planned to upgrade two of the rooms--get rid of the moldy rugs, and spiff up the place. I encouraged her. Casa Constancia could be full every night. It has what has to be the best view in all of Guanajuato, but the quality would not meet the expectations of many tourists.

A couple of days letter, my teacher E and I discussed our respective resolutions: hers were to give up drinking Coke, meditate more consistently, introduce more variety when she teaches yoga, learn English, and learn to swim. Since she's moving to Mexico City to begin a two year masters' degree program, I wondered if learning English and swimming was a lot to ask.

My goals were at the seedling stage--not refined yet. But the areas, I told her, were to focus more on writing and publishing, continue my eternal pursuit of mastery in Spanish, build more variety into my exercise and movement, nurture friendships with Mexicans, and keep putting my skills to use in business and training in Mexico.

I love sharing about goals. I will be checking in on L and E and offering my support.

Sky Room

We have a bedroom! No longer the temporary room by the kitchen that we were using (now my office), but a spacious, light-filled room on the roof, with window views in every direction. We can see the major churches, hills, La Bufa (a high rocky mountain ledge that we climb), rooftops, Pipila (a sculpture of the boy who helped start the Mexican revolution, and Guanajuato's most famous landmark), and much more.

"Do you have a name for the room?" our friend Tom from Texas asked us. He and Guille, his partner-turned-wife (just two weeks ago! a surprise!) were sitting on our new sofa and chair in the bedroom, overlooking San Francisco Church. They had come over to see the latest remodels. "I think you should call it the 'Sky Room,'" he said. "It looks like one of those view restaurants on the top of a high building."

A couple of days ago, after the last paint was swabbed, the workers hauled the bed and mattress up the narrow stairs to the roof. It was a much easier task than heaving the sofa and chair, which they did a few weeks ago by roping them one-by-one and using the pulley system they had created for hoisting up bricks and tiles and cement.

For now, the "Sky Room" serves as a combined bedroom, Barry's office and sala. We have no plans to install a bathroom up there, although a few of our friends have wondered about this. "Are you sure you can make it through the night?" one asked. (So far, yes). We discovered the pitfalls this week when it rained. When you enter the house, you go up one staircase that's open to the sky, and then to reach the roof, another open set of stairs. And when it rains here, it can rain hard! OK, we'll keep umbrellas handy at various spots.

While we're in the States in January, the workers will work on the patio we are creating facing the street, and rebuild the steps to the roof, which at the moment are an insurance company's windfall. For now, with the new bedroom, working kitchen, my office, and bathroom, the house feels palatial.

A Week at the Beach

Just back from a week at the beach, our first vacation in Mexico as residents, not as visitors flying in from the cold US. We headed west in the direction of the city of Manzanillo. Spent three days in Barra de Navidad, slightly south, and three days in La Manzanilla, slightly due north.

I am more a mountain person than a beach person, but I had a delicious time. We had been to Barra three years ago, so returned to the same pension, now upgraded, still run by Cooki, who let me use her cocina to make my early-morning coffee. Enjoyed the 10 peso ($1.00) lancha rides across the isthmus to the area opposite Barra, where stands, tall and imposing, Mexico's most luxurious hotel (according to the brochure, rooms start at about $350). I bought yet another cheerful checkered Mexican tablecloth. Our favorite coffee shop, hitherto run by a British woman we had made friends with last time, was no more. Had she returned to London? "She died of a stroke, very suddenly," a local told us. "Everyone was shocked." He shrugged. "Too much partying."

One afternoon I sat at the town square and chatted with a woman sitting at the same bench, waiting for her two children, 17 and 11, who were walking in the school posada (procession), collecting sweets for the piñata that would take place later. A widow, she explained that she took care of the gardens of three wealthy women: one American, one Canadian, and one Mexican. More and more gringos are coming to the area, she told me. "How do you feel about that?" I asked. She hesitated. I told her she could say anything to me, I wouldn't be bothered. "Well, it's good because it provides work."

I had seen the real estate signs dotted all over town, the properties listed in U.S. dollars. I have mixed feelings about the gringos coming. Of course, I'm one of them, so who am I to complain? She's right; it does mean more work, and a higher standard of living. It also means higher prices and a real estate market that will be less and less attainable for the people who live there.

She told me her two children went to the "escuela especial," which I found out, means the same in Spanish as in English, i.e. education for the developmentally delayed. After 4 years in the "regular" primary school, her son still hadn't learned read or write. But he learned in the special school. "That's wonderful," I said. "Do you read and write?"

"A little. I only went to third grade."

"Why did you stop?"

"Poverty."

Her children arrived: the older boy removing his costume cape, the younger son looking only slightly odd; she had told me he had Down's Syndrome. These two were the youngest of twelve children. The married children all lived in the area except one in Enseñada. "Are they doing OK economically?" I asked. She wavered. The impression I had was, better than when she was growing up, but not great.

La Manzanilla, on the other side of the city of Manzanillo, had a banquet of things to do. While snorkeling, I made the acquaintance of a fish I called Polka Dot Mom, for her plump, inviting lap of a body and dotted skin, and another favorite, Surfer Fish. We whiled away an hour watching a family of crocodiles lolling in the lagoon adjacent to the ocean. Rented kayaks. Took a forest walk that brought us to rock pools where we could dive off rock ledges and swim under tree trunks. Stayed at both a high-end place run by a German woman (www.casamaguey.com) with views of pelicans and sunsets, and our more typical low-brow budget pension (Puesto del Sol) whose manager, Lupita, was a friendly young mom who chatted with me while she sat on the tile floor of the terrace sticking feathers on her 5-year-old daughter's angel wings for the school Christmas procession. I also learned from Lupita how to stop our sheets sliding around and never staying tucked in, a problem I've never faced before. The secret? A mattress pad. I had shopped for a mattress pad before, but wasn't using the right terminology. Thanks, Lupita. Where would I be without my network of women?

The ride home entailed three buses and 11 hours, which sounds grueling, but first-class Mexican buses make me feel like I'm on an airline, flying Business Class. Reclining seats, individual ear phones to watch movies, a selection of free liquids and snacks, immaculate bathrooms, and half-price tickets thanks to our photo ID "credenciales" from our Spanish language school. I watched two movies and finished a crime novel. It almost seemed unfair, it was so pleasant.

Over the years of living on the West Coast, I've noticed that most Americans and Canadians seeking a tropical vacation choose Hawaii over Mexico. I've never understood why, and I understand even less now. Mexico is affordable, beautiful, eclectic, easy, relaxing, and friendly. Of course, it helps to speak Spanish. But Barry and I enjoyed Mexican vacation spots long before we spoke Spanish.

The Underside of Mexico

About a month ago the city installed small garbage bins along our callejon. Great! One way to reduce litter, a common problem in Guanajuato, where there's no garbage collection on the callejones since traffic isn't allowed. People walk their household garbage to a larger neighborhood depository. In our case, it's only a couple of minutes away, but if you live higher up the hill, it could be a longer walk.

The newly installed garbage containers were a welcome addition. After a few days, however, I noticed that the bin across the callejon from our front door was beginning to overflow. Another day or two later, predictably, the garbage was falling onto the pavement. My theory that litter attracts more litter proved true; before long, a puddle of litter had formed around the bin and soon dogs had successfully expanded the perimeter. I have no idea when the bins will be emptied, but they've been installed for about ten days, and I've seen no sign of removal.

Eventually I got so frustrated that I picked up the garbage on the pavement and took it to the large depository. But the area was still a mess.

This is one of those cultural gaps that is hard for me to breach. Don't people see it? I fume. Is all they care about their own private aesthetic? Don't they want our newly-paved, newly-beautified callejon, Tecolote, one of the most historic routes in Guanajuato, and arguably Mexico (the route where the fight for Mexican independence began) to look worthy of its history?

Rail on, Louisa. Other gringos have tried before me. One thing I have been told, and which I believe, is that although outsiders can support change here, it won't happen long-term and deeply unless it is driven by local demand.

My neighbor, N, had gone to the city authorities a couple of weeks ago, complaining that the workers redoing the lighting of our callejon had removed some of her outer house paint without repairing it. Somewhat to my surprise, the city had taken action on her complaint. So I was pleased, but not totally shocked, when she rang our doorbell a couple of days ago and told me she was furious. The trash bins were not only unsightly, they were unhygienic. She had talked to residents uphill who had seen rats near theirs. She was returning to the municipality to insist that they remove the bins, they were worse than useless. Would Barry and I be willing to sign our names if the city needed more proof? I assured her we would. Since then, Barry took photos of the bins for further documentation if she wants.

I told her I admired her citizen advocacy. "Una mujer fuerte!" I said ("a strong woman!"). Whatever you have read of protests overtaking the streets of Oaxaca and Mexico City, my experience of most Mexicans in Guanajuato is that of apathy and passivity. There's a Spanish verb used a lot in Mexico: "aguantar," meaning to tolerate and put up with. Mexicans tolerate and endure in a way that would be unthinkable to most Americans.

This experience is one of those shocks I get every so often, when I'm reminded of how radically different our cultures are. The litter, the graffiti on freshly painted walls, the absence of recycling. Every time I throw a glass bottle or aluminum can into the garbage, I wince. But, I remind myself, this is how much of the world lives. Only in the more prosperous countries does curbside recycling exist.

Meanwhile my neighbor is going to the municipality tomorrow. I've heard that Monday is "citizen complaint" day. Nothing has changed yet. But I'm heartened by her initiative.