A Mexican Family Watching TV

I visited my friend Lupita yesterday. Lupita runs a pension in Guanajuato with one of the most spectacular views in a city filled with spectacular views. She's a good old girl. About 40, she was married for years to an abusive husband, finally got up the gumption to leave him, and now has a full-time clerical job while managing the pension. Her recent erstwhile partner was nice enough, but a freeloader, so awhile ago she ditched him. I remember once he took us to the airport, waxing romantic about an upcoming pilgrimage he was going to walk, how it offered time for reflection. "What about Lupita?" I asked him. "Is she going?" No, she wasn't. She would stay back at the pension, washing and cleaning and readying the rooms for the next guests, while he "reflected." Why wasn't I surprised?

We sat at her dining room table and caught up. I admired how she had rearranged furniture.

Next to us sat a family from Mexico City watching TV. They are staying at the pension for two months while the dad has a short-term business contract.

While Lupita went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water, I inconspicuously studied the body language of the family. The armchairs and sofa were in a U-shape configuration. Dad sat in one chair, holding a boy of about three. At right angles to him, on the sofa, sat Mom, holding a baby swaddled in a blanket. Her and her husband's fingers just reached between their seats. Next to her perched a son of about six, sitting close to Grandma on his other side. In the armchair opposite Dad, sat a daughter of about 12.

Six of the seven family members were touching or sitting close to each other, if not on each other.

Even while watching television--that great enemy of intimacy--this family seemed to be a tableaux of warmth and affection.

On the Other Hand...

Oh dear. Once again we are leaving Guanajuato and I am filled with ambivalence.

I love hiking and being places, like Guanajuato, where I have both a regular everyday life, and I can start walking in beautiful hilly country right from my front door, no car, no bus, no nothing necessary. It's not like I'm on a special tour or a vacation set up for it-- it's just ordinary life. This is freedom!

While in Guanajuato, I feel less alive thinking about Eureka. On the other hand, I like the area around Eureka. Barry and I can venture out on fun van outings and go cycling on our cool folding bikes. We can go backpacking. The fall season is within spitting distance and I daydream of bicycling and hiking amid glorious fall colors.

And I am not ambivalent about having my new wetsuit and swimming in the bay.

Still, I hate leaving here and wish I had set it up to stay longer. Yes, I could stay longer, but it would cost a bundle to change the airline reservations, and flight costs are so high as it is. If I stayed much longer I'd also have to change several appointments in Eureka which I am reluctant to do. One is with a client who is notoriously hard to schedule with at all. I'm ambivalent about the contract I hope (?) to set up because it would tie me to Eureka on a monthly basis. On the other hand (I have a lot of hands), I always enjoy doing the work. Meanwhile I'm also ambivalent about getting the Mexican work visa I'm applying for because the process is long and tedious and filled with pitfalls and I'm not sure how commited I am anyway.

I'm ambivalent about being ambivalent, at least. Isn't that an oxymoron?

Shopping Everyday

My sister Jane and my 16-year-old niece, another Louisa, visited us in Guanajuato last week, and the subject--as usual in my family--turned to food and related topics, like cooking and shopping. We discussed the dramatic differences in our kitchens. Jane, who is raising three children, keeps much more food around than we do: baskets of fruit, dried fruit, cereals, bread. Not a lot of starch or junk, but a generous amount of food you can nibble on without having to cook or prepare. Our kitchen looks anorexic by comparison.

But it's not that we deprive ourselves. If I want munchies, I will go out and buy it, but I don't routinely keep stuff like that lying around the house because I'm likely to eat all of it. And we don't buy a lot of fruit at one time because it goes bad quickly.

The beauty of Mexico is that within 2-3 minutes of our home are a variety of shops selling the foods we like. They are open early and late. I buy my almost-daily 35-cent bag of raisins at one shop, Barry buys his granola-based cookies at another shop. We can buy an ice cream cone at various shops, fruit and vegetables at a produce store, rolls for Barry (I don't eat bread) at the bakery.

It's the ideal way to have your snacks and eat them too.

Towards Life

I went on my first early morning meditation walk in three days this morning, choosing the street called "Terremoto" (Earthquake) and some of its side alleys. As I walked along, I mulled on the friend who is visiting us. In 1977, when I met her, she was the girlfriend of one of my housemates in a group home I shared in Vancouver, B.C. We met when we began chatting one evening, only a day after I had returned to Canada from my father's home, where I had been for six weeks since my mother died. All she had been told was that the upstairs bedroom was occupied by an American who was away. No one had told her the circumstances. I was deeply disappointed that no one had deemed it important enough to explain my absence. But my hurt feelings were extinguished by her interest, her concern, her questions. That evening we ended up sitting on the shaggy rug in the house bathroom talking until 3:00 a.m. And thus was our friendship born.

Fast forward thirty years. For the last three years, she has been severely depressed. She has suffered through a harrowing series of medications, dosages, psychiatrists, hospital stays, electroshock treatment, and more, seeking a solution. Nothing has helped; she still suffers from acute and severe depression. At one point she overdosed but did not succeed at ending her life. She woke up deeply disappointed.

It has been a long journey for Barry and me, too, waking up to the severity of her depression. It is difficult to explain the jumble of feelings that co-reside within me about her situation. Some moments I accept that she probably will kill herself one day, and maybe that's better than waking up (as she does now), morning after morning dreading the long hours and wishing she could sleep forever. Other moments--like yesterday, when I heard her laughing, or watching her swill a cold beer after a long hike--I argue with her in my mind, saying, "See? You do too like life! Prove it to me that you don't!" Still other times, I feel an unbearable sadness at the emptiness that seems to fill her, an emptiness I cannot, no matter how much I wish I could, lift.

We were thrilled that she made it down to Guanajuato. None of us, herself included, was sure she would make it, so deep is her inertia.

So there I was this morning, on my meditation walk/sit, walking down Terremoto, watching the way the street curved, admiring the newly painted red/orange church, catching the sun just emerging from the hills, puzzling over the aquaducts below and where they were located. I watched a young mother as she wheeled her stroller along a steep incline, then carefully tilted the stroller backwards to negotiate a few steps. A man balanced in his arms a large wicker basket of baked goods. A woman in her bathrobe swept the area in front of her doorstep. A white-haired, delicate-framed woman passing the red church made the sign of the cross.

Later, I sat high on the steps of the large square of the Alhondiga museum for the meditation portion of my walk. I watched a train of young people below me jogging around the square. "Uno!" called the coach. "Uno!" they cried in unison. "Dos!" "Dos! "Tres!" "Tres!" "Cuatro!" "Cuatro!" "Uno, dos, tres, cuatro!" A man, dressed in a navy suit, strode briskly down the steps and crossed the square, just missing the joggers.

Life, I thought. I spelled it out in my mind: L, I, F, E. Everyone is expressing life. Ordinary scenes of life. Tears came to my eyes.

After a few more minutes, I got up off the stone step and headed in the direction of home. I passed a road worker adjusting the roadblocks of a street being repaved, a shopkeeper opening her door for the day's business, a guy walking his motorscooter along the sidewalk. Even the taxis cruising by seemed full of positive purpose, taking people to their meetings, destinations, connections, callings. Simple purposeful actions affirming life.

Everyone moving along their life's trajectory. I affirm life, I thought. That we have life, that life is at all, this is good. That I am life, and have life, this too is good.

Being an Expat in Ireland, Amsterdam, Mexico

Mexico is the only foreign country where Barry and I have bought a home, but it is not the only country where we considered living, and stayed for several months to try it out. I have been musing about our experiences living in different cultures and why I'm happy that in the end we chose Mexico.

In 1999, we spent four months in Ireland: two months bicycling the West Coast and two months renting an apartment in Clifden, one of the towns we had visited while cycling, a village about 50 miles west of Galway. Our apartment on the "High Street," which we rented from Eileen, the butcher's wife, had a view of the ocean. Almost every afternoon we would go on a beautiful bike ride along the Sky Road or the Bog Road, beneath the majestic Connemara mountains. We joined a writers' group, I went to a 12-step meeting, we hung out at cafes, we invited people over for drinks or meals-- in other words, we planted the seeds to nurture friendships, but the friendships themselves did not grow. We began to wonder if the historic clannishness of Ireland still had a modern-day form. When the November rains arrived in full force, we decided it was time to leave. We were glad we had savored the many beauties of Ireland, but it was never a place where we thought of actually settling. Of course, we were in a small, remote village; maybe things might have been different in a larger town.

In 2005, we spent three months in Amsterdam, first house-sitting for friends while they went on vacation, then subletting apartments. Our friends helped us get started by introducing us to a few of their friends. I went to professional women's networking events and writers' groups. I joined a gym and tried to get to know my Pilates teacher, who I made a good connection with, but she was busy and not available much. I contacted every referral I had, even the more remote ones. But once again, we didn't find it easy to make friends. We found the Dutch politically liberal, but not particularly open to strangers. I thought it might be because we were American, but a Danish woman told me she had had trouble fitting in as well. I felt intimidated at times by the brusqueness I experienced--most of the people we met seemed efficient, self-contained, busy, and impatient if you didn't get to your point right away. Once again, Amsterdam was a beautiful city to explore, but it never felt like a place to settle.

Meanwhile, both countries were expensive, cold, and wet. That too had an impact. Barry and I love to be outdoors and don't want to huddle next to a gas fire (racking up huge heating bills) for months on end.

We had already visited Guanajuato when we lived in Ireland and the Netherlands, but had never considered buying a home here. Now that we have, I ponder why Mexico feels so "right." In some ways, we aren't a particularly good fit with Mexican culture. We don't like crowds, we aren't fans of loud music, we don't stay up late, we don't dance a lot, and despite our ongoing efforts, we still struggle to understand Spanish.

But the warmth of the Mexican people is a powerful factor. People are kind, patient, and forgiving. Despite the poverty level here, Mexicans are, according to one study, among the happiest people on the planet. We find them welcoming to foreigners. They may resent our government, but they have never showed resentment to us.

Psychologically, I feel in some ways closer to Mexican culture than that of Ireland or the Netherlands. Perhaps it's because we're on the same continent; perhaps because of living in California, with its large numbers of Latinos... I'm not sure why. Geographically we're positioned on a north-south axis rather than an east-west one. We are only two time zones away from California rather than the five, had we moved to Europe. I'm happy that we are no further away from my family members here than in Eureka. I like feeling accessible and close.

And of course, the fact that Mexico is much more affordable than Europe, and has great weather--you can't argue with those.

"Que Sera, Sera" Enshrined in Concrete and Stone

Yesterday, while walking in Guanajuato, I climbed a series of steps several feet high, with no guardrail and no warnings of danger. It didn't surprise me, because I see potentially hazardous spots like this all over town. A five-year-old or even an absent-minded 55-year-old could easily miss a step and break their bones, if not more.

Sometimes I see a gaggle of schoolkids pushing and shoving and walking several abreast, the way schoolkids do, inches away from a dramatic drop-off, and my hearts beats a little faster. I think, "Accident waiting to happen!"

It's not that the government can't afford to erect guardrails or put up signs; it spends plenty of money on maintaining and restoring the colonial churches and other historic buildings that gave Guanajuato its UNESCO cultural heritage stamp. You could argue that the city puts its money in the touristed areas, and this is true, but I've seen dangerous drop-offs even in highly-visited parts of town.

I've noticed that city engineering codes in Mexico, and many other countries outside the States, Canada, Western Europe and Australia, are just much more relaxed. The engineering codes seem to reflect a more permissive cultural attitude of "que sera, sera," enshrined in concrete.

Reviving an Old Tradition

Sunday mornings I see dozens of amas de casa (housewives) shopping for food for their family's mid-afternoon Sunday meal. The main meal of the day in Mexico is always around 2 or 3, but seeing them shopping on Sunday, with their bulging plastic bags of food, always reminds me of how when I was growing up, we'd have our main Sunday meal during the day, after church.

Wanting to be in the rhythm of the community, I decided I too would plan a Sunday pot roast--metaphorically speaking. I don't eat meat, but I would cook a more elegant meal and serve it midday.

Yesterday I made a delicious--even more delicious than usual--and bountiful salad made with chard, tomatoes, zucchini, sliced onions, mushrooms, pasta, walnuts, goat cheese, olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I cleaned the dining room table, set a place mat, and poured myself a glass of wine.

I didn't mind eating alone. Ever since 1971, I've felt pretty comfortable eating alone, whether at home or in a restaurant, and going to movies and other performances alone. That was the year I was attending the University of North Wales in Bangor, and my friend Kim and I planned one Saturday evening to go see They Shoot Horses, Don't They? Before the movie we strolled down to the pier to eat fish and chips out of newspapers. "I've changed my mind," she said. "I don't want to go to the movie."

"But I do," I objected.

"Well, you can go," she said.

"By myself?"

"Sure."

Her confidence was so unambiguous, I thought, well, why not? Off I went to the movie theater and got so engrossed in the film, I didn't give my solitude a second thought. And I never looked back.

My Sunday dinner yeterday was a feast, as was the company. Me.

Rumblings

I said to two friends of mine recently, only partly in jest, "After expats finish working on their houses, what do they do here?" (This assumes, of course, that people finish working on their houses. In many cases, that doesn't happen. Ongoing "arreglos" on the house become part of the landscape).

I can't figure out what our life here is really going to be. Making inroads into friendships with Mexican women seems a slow process.

There are two big volunteer projects here: Amigos de los Animales, which offers support to Guanajuato's huge number of stray animals; and a domestic-violence shelter. Neither of those organizations draw me much. I am sorry about abused women and abused animals, but neither issue is where my heart lies.

Among the gringos, there's a craft group, a bridge club, a wine-tasting club. Nope.

I keep following nudges. I called a woman who leads a breast cancer support group. I'm interested in body issues, healing, mortality, support, and facilitation, so this sounds promising. She sounded very happy to hear from me, and asked me to call her the last week of July. Of course, I leave Guanajuato on July 30. (Sigh!) I called another woman, who I have met before, someone who coordinates workshops for people with cancer and their families. I invited her to have coffee. She asked me to call her back next week.

I have the same frustration here as I do in the States. I find out about a person/group that sounds interesting and call them. Usually I could meet that very day. They never can, of course. Not only are they unavailable, they often don't even want to set the date yet. It just seems to take forever.

I am applying for my work visa, but I'm not sure how commited I am to working here; it's more that I want to keep my options open.

I spend a lot of my days here moving physically, either hiking or walking around getting things done. Of course I love movement, so this is one of the great draws of Guanajuato. But I can't build my whole day around movement. Or can I?

I keep plugging away at Spanish. I have a new tutor, a funny, eccentric, old-fashioned man in his late fifties. But even with Spanish, I do wonder: for what practical reason am I hoping to better myself? I can navigate fine with the Spanish I have.

Guanajuato is an ideal place to work on a book. And my blog writing does flow much more here than in Eureka. These last two weeks on my own here, without Barry, have felt very much like a retreat. Is that what it will be for us? It's a great retreat environment, though a costly one if you consider airfares. We have chosen to live in a remote and not very accessible part of the USA, and an equally not very accessible part of Mexico!

I have all these rumblings, and then I decide, well, sufficient unto the day. Today's task is to support Girardo, our tile layer, in furthering the tiling of the downstairs rooms.

Every once in a great while, I worry: oh dear, has the Guanajuato project been a mistake? Investing all this time, money, commitment in this house, and then -- what if we don't spend much time here? Barry takes a larger view. He says, "It'll be what it'll be. Maybe we won't spend that much time here. That's OK, too." And if all else fails, it is a good investment.

In the past, I have felt guilty and even defensive admitting I wasn't sure about Mexico, and awkward that I spent more time in California (or traveling elsewhere) than in Mexico. It's silly. I keep reminded myself that the lock of focus I feel here, which I also struggle with in Eureka, is a situation I face, not a moral failing.

The Challenge, Opportunity, and Practice

The other day, I gave a small desk to a friend. She and I carried the desk down our street to her car. It wasn't that heavy, but it was awkward. The street where her car was parked was narrow and crowded. She carried her end of the desk behind her, I was in the rear. As we jostled along on the narrow sidewalk, we passed a woman coming toward us.

I expected the woman to make way for us, since we were, obviously, I thought, carrying something awkward and less in a position to yield than she was. But she didn't make way at all. Somehow we moved forward and she moved in her direction. "How rude," I thought.

The challenge--and opportunity--I find living in Mexico is that it is so easy to immediately blame her response on being Mexican, and to create a whole story around it. "Mexicans this... Mexicans that... It's so weird how Mexicans... You know how in Mexico, people..." And so on.

Maybe her response was "Mexican."

Or maybe it was a host of other possibilities. Maybe her mind was off thinking about her child's autism, or her husband's affair, or her mom's diabetes--or just her grocery list.

Maybe she had insecure footing and didn't like to step off sidewalks without a lot of careful forethought.

Maybe she had vision problems.

Who knows?

What I do know is, if this happened in the States, I would not think, "Oh, how American of her!"

When something I don't like happens in Mexico, it's very tempting to blame it on Mexico. It's a knee-jerk reaction for me to make as a foreigner always bumping up against cultural questions.

I see it as a challenge, an opportunity, and an ongoing practice to notice the places where my mind can go.

A Mexico Moment

The other day I bought an ice cream cone at a shop on the Jardin, Guanajuato's plaza. There were two employees working, a girl and a guy. The girl gave me the change in a handful of coins. I counted them, put them in my pocket and left, licking my cone. Less than a moment later, I had a doubt--I was pretty sure I had been given the wrong amount. I re-counted--sure enough, I was owed two pesos. I felt OK going back to reclaim the missing change since I had only just left the shop.

I went back in, explained, and showed them the change.

"Maybe you dropped the other coins," the girl said. (Actually, in Spanish, you never say, "you dropped," you say, "it dropped itself." Personal responsibility is not a core teaching in Spanish grammar!) But that was the message.

"No, I'm sure I didn't," I said, shaking my head with emphasis. We stood there a moment and I thought the girl was going to get two pesos out of the cash register. But I felt around in my pocket, though I didn't think anything was there, and suddenly felt something metallic. I pulled out a two-peso coin.

"Oops!" I smiled ruefully, now feeling a bit awkward that I had been so sure a moment earlier. (Yes, "oops" is a word in Spanish). "Disculpeme," I said.

As I left the shop, the guy was laughing his head off. Not in a mean way.

There was something about his reaction that felt very Mexican. He wasn't annoyed at me for thinking they were in the wrong (as I might have expected him to react), he didn't get self-righteous, he didn't act curtly or coldly towards me, didn't scold me or give me a lecture--he just laughed at my silly human foible. I loved it. I waved goodbye, laughing too.

Adventures in Delivery

I am getting three of our floors redone. These rooms have old, faded, tired and dirty floors that, despite professional cleaning, still look old, faded, tired and dirty. I hired Girardo, tile fitter recommended by our friend Tom. At Garo, the tile factory in town, I ordered lighter-toned ("Tuscany Beige") porcelain tiles. Two of the rooms are quite dark, and I'm hoping the off-white tiles will lighten them.

Delivery is included in the price...that is, delivery to a home the pick-up truck can access. But in alley-laden Guanajuato, you often can't access the street. Our home isn't accessible by car (one of its advantages, except when it comes to deliveries). Tom pointed out that many people spend as much on delivery charges as on the materials. While I was at the store, the salesperson I was dealing with had a long conversation with the manager about the feasibility of getting the tiles (and grout and cement) to our house. Finally they decided they would do all they could, but they couldn't promise, since delivery trucks at our nearest drop-off point are, theoretically, only allowed five minutes to park.

The driver and I spoke on the phone while I was at the store, and he asked if I could meet him at the drop-off point that afternoon (two days ahead of delivery), and we would walk through the process and see if it was workable.

An hour later we met. While he stayed with the truck, his helper and I checked out two drop-off places at the bottom of Tecolte, our street. He didn't think either of them would work, because delivering all the material would take at least an hour. The driver asked if we could access Tecolote from La Panoramica, the highway above town that circumnavigates the city. The problem, I told him, is you can only drive down a little bit of Tecolote before you reach the barrier that prevents entry of motor vehicles, and it's a longer walk to our house from that place than from the bottom. "Well, let's go check it out," he said. So we wound slowly around town--driving around the twists and turns of Guanajuato is always slower than walking--ending up at La Panoramica, where he turned the truck around and began driving in reverse, since there's no turnaround point lower down. We came to a low bridge, where another road intersects Tecolote above it, and...of course!...the roof of the truck got stuck. The guys were able to unjam it and get out, but obviously the truck wasn't going to be able to fit.

"There is another truck the store owns, but it's in the shop," the guy said. Well, that's no use. A car in a shop will take a long time for repairs.

The driver's helper and I headed down Tecolote on foot, leaving the driver with the truck, and I walked him from the bottom of the street up to our house, showing him the route. There was no other option but to hope they would be able to hover down at the bottom of Tecolote long enough before the traffic officer told them to leave or threatened to fine them. Traffic penalties are high. The driver told me that tipping the transit officer $5 U.S. might help.

The day of the delivery, the driver called me from the store, saying he'd be there in 20 minutes and for me to meet him at the bottom of the street. I went on down and spotted the truck. He talked to the transito and was told that for the time being, parking was OK. We were in a bit of a lull, it being siesta-time, so traffic was light. There were three guys all told. The distance isn't far, but the incline is very steep and they were breaking out a sweat at the first trip. I sat on the steps inside the house, keeping count of the tiles and watching them work, not really liking being the Little Lady standing by, but knowing there was no real atternative. For one thing, each of the cartons of tile weighed about 80 pounds, and for another, I couldn't leave the door of the house open and unattended.

Another gringa we know who lives deep in a callejon bought a burro to transport things. Maybe that's the solution.

They worked hard. I gave them more than we contracted for, $15 each and $5 to the transito. But good. It's done. And today Girardo arrives to start the work. By the end of the week we'll have newly tiled floors, and it'll all be finished.

Awkward Moment

Last night I went to see Swan Lake at the local theater, because our friend Alfredo's daughter was one of the ballerinas. After a couple of dances, I thought, Tchaikovsky must have written this work in order to give parents the pleasure of watching their young daughters dance. There were dozens upon dozens of little girls in their green, white, and red tutus, pirouetting around the stage. You could smell the perfume from bouquets of flowers all over the theater. The second act, when many of the first-act ballerinas were off duty, got a little chaotic as the little girls joined their moms in the theater rows, at times standing, running, or leaping down the aisle. Not all of them had learned audience behavior.

Afterwards I met up with Alfredo, who is a meditator, and his wife. His wife and I chatted while he went off for a moment. They have 3 children: a girl, 17, who I had not met, a younger girl, 8 (both in the ballet), and a son, 5. Because Alfredo had a couple of times with Barry and me referred to his older daughter as "my daughter" (rather than "our") I had mistakenly assumed his daughter was from a previous marriage. This was not a logical assumption on my part. Children from previous marriages are often ignored and forgotten about by their fathers.

"Oh no, she's our daughter," his wife said, correcting me. "And there are no others, as far as I know!" she joked. "And you? Do you have children?"

"Yes, I do. My step-daughters."

Polite smile, silence. No further questions like how old are they, where do they live. I didn't volunteer information, though now I wish I had.

Step-children, I've learned, are a dark subject in Mexico. Blended families don't exist here. Fathers do not want to raise a child who is not their own, which is why single mothers have difficulty remarrying. Oh, sometimes life in Mexico makes me sad.

I do occasionally refer to my step-daughters as just "daughters," but I didn't want to gloss here. Alfredo is a lovely guy, I feel very warmly towards him, and I wouldn't want one of them to be visiting and him to find out otherwise. Plus, their mother is alive and very much part of their lives.

Resting While Awake

Yesterday afternoon, after buzzing around town, I came back to the house and sat on the modified Lazy-boy in the room of our home that serves as both sala and my office. I leaned back, propped my feet up, relaxed my arms, and breathed deeply. I felt like I had just started breathing again after an intense period of being so caught up in life, I had almost forgotten to breathe.

My eyes rested on the red-and-blue picture hanging on the wall next to my desk. It's of two Latino women, very lush and sensuous-looking, dressed in blue dressing-gowns. Their fingernails and toenails are painted red. They're sitting on a plush red sofa, drinking tea. A silver tray of tea cups and a kettle fills the space before them. White lilies and a black cat add to the scene. It's all very resplendent-looking.

I sat looking at the colors and shapes, my body still, my mind quiet. No thoughts that I can remember. Just to gaze softly at certain pictures can be deeply soothing and calming for me.

I love rest. I enjoy sleep too, but I'm not talking about sleep here because I'm rarely aware of it when I'm doing it (I know there are some who lucidly dream, but I don't). Nor do I mean formal sitting meditation, though I think of softly gazing at a picture, or watching light and shadows, as a kind of meditation. Rest is something I I haven't always appreciated. I enjoy it more and more.

Messy Mangos

I don't like my hands getting sticky or dirty. It's a silly thing, but it's true. Unfortunately this means there are a lot of pleasurable things in life I avoid. Like gardening, for instance. Or eating sticky fruit.

I eat dry fruit like apples and bananas, but I usually avoid sticky fruit like oranges. Figs I do like, and can tolerate them because even though they lean towards stickiness, they're small enough to consume without getting messy.

But the mangos in Mexico this season are so juicy and yummy that I have escaped my phobia and allowed myself to get sticky and dirty.

I peel the mango and dig into it over the kitchen sink. I don't usually approve of eating over the kitchen sink--it's kind of gross (like eating in the bathroom, another rule I have, which I have been known to break), but eating over the sink allows me to be messy and spill freely, without fear of repercussions. See, spilling is another of my phobias. I hate spilling on clothes, rugs, fabrics. (And wouldn't you know it, I married someone who seems to have a special tendency to spill. Go figure).

I'm eating a mango everyday, getting my fingers sticky, making a mess and loving it!

Tipping Epiphany

I was at my favorite cafe the other evening having my favorite snack--totopos--chips with salsa, the delicious Mexican kind, fresh from the oven, with a Corona. I watched the action in the plaza, the people, the dogs. Classic Mexico evening.

But all good things come to an end, and before long I looked up and saw that my plate of totopos was empty. I signaled the waiter and asked for another plate. "It may not be authorized," he said, sounding reluctant. One serving of totopos is usually on the house; more than that depends.

Moments later he returned with a second heaping plate of totopos. I rewarded him with a big smile.

Another few moments later, I looked up again, and tragically, once again they were all gone. But this time even I was not going to order a third plate. So I got the check and paid.

Now, the existential question: How much to tip? The bill was only 15 pesos for a beer (about $1.50 U.S.). Normally I'd leave 5 pesos, or 50 cents. Sometimes, if you just have a drink, people leave nothing. But he had, after all, enabled me to have not one but two generous helpings of my favorite snack. Dinner, really. He could have found a way to charge me for the second plate, or denied me it.

I pulled out a 10 peso coin (one dollar), and left it on the table, stood up, and walked away, my head high, smiling at the waiter as I left, feeling a sense of pride.

This probably sounds ridiculous. But I'm not exaggerating. That is how I felt. Whereas usually I would have left 5 pesos or nothing, and skulked away feeling guilty and defensive.

See, I'm notoriously cheap, and I often do battle within myself over what I "should" leave versus what I can get away with leaving, and often the "get away with" family fighter wins.

But this particular evening, I suddenly had a powerful insight: I tip for me. I tip so I can hold my head high and walk away with self-respect and dignity. I tip so I can feel peace of mind and be free of arguments in my head the rest of the evening.

This insight feels profound. I hope it'll make it easier for me to tip in the future, knowing I'm doing it for me and no one else.