Category: Mexican Daily Life

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Crime in México

I’m often asked if I feel safe living in México. My answer is an emphatic YES! In fact, there are many reasons to feel safe, starting with the fact that the crime rate Aurora is much higher than in Mazatlán.

I take precautions in México. I don’t wear sparkly jewelry. Other than a pair of cheap silver earrings, I don’t wear jewelry at all. I always travel with Neto and we only go to places that he knows are safe. 

Neto has certainly seen more crime in his lifetime than I have in mine. When he was eight years old, he saw a judge executed in the street by gang members. He was mugged by three men in broad daylight one morning, coming off a bus to go to work for me. Most recently, he had his bicycle stolen when he went inside a convenience store to buy Coca Cola.

I believe that most crimes in México are crimes of opportunity. If you provide the opportunity, eventually someone will commit the crime.

That occurred often when I lived in México. The crime was dog-napping and it happened with alarming frequency.

There is a big difference between the way Méxican people view animals and the attention the ex-pats lavish on their pets. I would venture to say, Méxican people are generally more fond of the iguanas in their courtyard than they are of the guard dogs on their roofs. They don’t walk either one and iguanas make less mess. 

Méxican people are often amused by the love and devotion that Americans show to their pets ~ especially their love of small white, fluffy dogs. Therein lies the opportunity for crime. 

Little white, fluffy dogs are accustomed to being walked outside. They wiggle their cute little butts with happiness at all the wonderful smells out on the street. They learn to smile and make friends wherever they go. They welcome being petted by strangers. Occasionally, when doors are not secure, they escape and go for walks down the street without their owners. This is not a safe situation. In fact, in a city in which the average worker earns 200 pesos/day (about $12.00 U.S.) doing hard labor, it is an opportunity for a crime.

Fluffy is easily scooped up by men, women and/or children who want to earn extra money. The upset owners are willing to do anything to get their dog back. They put up reward posters featuring a cute picture of Fluffy, with her shiny white hair and beguiling black eyes. Often the reward is $200.00 (U.S.) It lists the local telephone number for Fluffy’s owner, who now spends every moment waiting for a call.

The call comes soon enough. Of course the caller isn’t a dog-napper. It’s someone who “found” Fluffy walking down the street and took her home to insure her safety. Fluffy’s owner is over-joyed. The reunion is full of happy tears. The Prodigal Pet has returned! The reward is paid. Often hugs are exchanged. Everyone is happy.

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Adios, México!

The countdown has begun. From the number of weeks, to the number of days, and soon to the number of hours before I leave México for my home in Aurora, CO.

Ernesto and I have a ritual in the final days before saying goodbye. We list our best memories of our time together. We had a lot of fun in the past eight weeks. Here are my five best moments, in order.

1. Drinking coffee and chai on the balcony every morning with the sun on my face. 

I was cold for two months before coming to Mazatlán. So cold, I thought I would never get warm. And then I landed in México. Every morning, as I sat on the patio of our beautiful apartment wearing only shorts and a tee-shirt, I was grateful to be where the sun is warm, the sky is blue, and birds sit on the telephone wires, singing Buenos Dias to anyone lucky enough to live here even for a short time.

2. Discovering a new favorite restaurant.

We had a few disappointing meals in highly-rated restaurants before we stumbled upon La Parilla Express, a lovely restaurant in a remodeled old home on a side street near our apartment. We got lost the first time we tried to find it. We walked about a mile out of our way in the dark, stopping to ask for directions from people who had no idea where it was but were happy to give us directions anyway. I’m glad we didn’t give up. The meal was so extraordinary, we went back for Valentine’s Day and returned again this week to say goodbye. 

3. Laughing every time I discovered a new monigote on display for Carnival.

Neto and I skipped most of the Carnival events this year. A combination of poor planning and lack of interest on our parts. But I never got tired of looking at the monigotes, the twenty-five foot tall statues along the main street in front of the ocean. This year there are 16 statues representing the Spanish speaking countries of Central and South America.They are a quirky reminder of the fun-loving spirit of the Mexican people.

4. Seeing a couple get engaged on the beach.

People get engaged all the time on Mexican beaches but this ceremony was truly over the top. We happened to be eating dinner in a nearby restaurant when we noticed huge letters, spelling out “Marry Me”  lighting up the sky in front of us. As the Mexican couple, dressed all in white, approached the beach, someone presented the young woman with a bouquet of five dozen long-stemmed red roses. Under spotlights, in full view of family and friends, the young man got down on one knee and asked his girlfriend to marry him. Of course, she said yes. Then a long kiss as they were surrounded by ten Mariachis in formal dress, playing quiet songs for dancing. AND THEN FIREWORKS!. A full ten minutes of fireworks on the beach.

Neither of these two young lovers were glamorous, or even gorgeous in the way I’ve come to expect Mexican faces to be. No, they were in their mid-thirties, a little plain, a little pudgy, but obviously in love. 

5. Meeting our dear friends, Eunice and Gordon, for dinner.

Eunice and Gordon, from Saskatchewan, stayed with me many times when I lived in Mazatlán. Often they were the only thing that kept me sane. Eunice loves Mexico more than anyone I know. She missed being here last year because she was sick. Terribly sick. So sick, I was afraid I would never see her again.

Seeing Eunice and Gordon walk toward me, as I sat waiting in the Papas Locas restaurant, brought tears to my eyes. It was the highlight of this trip for me. Adios, my dear friends. Vaya con Dios! Until we meet again.

¡Viva México!

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Cooper

Cooper was Neto’s mother’s dog. He came from a long line of stray dogs she adopted, all of them named Gary Cooper. Although Zelmira liked her dogs, she loved the real Gary Cooper the best.

The Cooper before this one shared the same Golden Retriever face and body. The previous Cooper, a guard dog who lived on top of the roof, was awarded special treats not shared by most rooftop dogs ~ a tent for shelter from the sun and the rain, and bowls of water and food refilled every day. But for the previous Cooper, that was not enough. One night, he jumped off the roof, ran down the street at full gallup and was never seen again.

When the new Cooper showed up, Zelmira welcomed him in. She told him he didn’t need to live on the roof. She let him stay on the patio and occasionally come in the house. One day, however, Neto arrived at our house leading Cooper on a rope.

“Where did this dog come from?” I asked.

“He’s my mother’s dog but she got in a fight with him. I rescued him just in time.”

“What do you mean they got in a fight?”

“Well you know how my mother can’t stand things to be out of order and this dog made a mess of things. He took one of her shoes and ripped it with his teeth.”

“And then?”

“My mother started yelling at him and hitting him with the broom. I decided to give them both a break and bring him here.”

Neto always wanted a dog he could go surfing with. He’d seen dogs on surfboards in the ocean, smiling and looking like they enjoyed the ride. He’d seen dogs playing in the water, chasing waves and running back and forth to the shore. That afternoon he took Cooper to the beach. But the dog was not an ocean dog. He cowered and shook. He whimpered and cried. He simply didn’t want to go near the water. 

Not to be deterred, the next day Neto took Cooper in a small boat across the bay to Stone Island, a surfing village filled with hammocks and small restaurants. Neto figured that Cooper wouldn’t jump out of the boat into the water. Maybe a change of scenery was what the dog needed to learn to love the waves as much as he did.

Neto tied Cooper to a tree while he went surfing. He watched from a distance and Cooper seemed calm. Maybe even happy.

When it was time to go home, Neto came ashore, picked up his surfboard and untied Cooper’s leash. The dog took off! Neto is fast but Cooper was faster. He ran down the path into the jungle of palm trees. There was no stopping him. Neto was furious and then dejected. He had lost his mother’s dog. More importantly, he lost his chance of ever having a surfing dog.

But there is a happy ending to this story. Three month’s later to the very day, Neto was back at Stone Island with three of our guests ~ two boys from Finland and a girl from Australia. They were sitting at Rudy’s Restaurant, eating ceviche and drinking beer, when Rudy asked, “Where have you been? Your dog comes here almost every night, looking for you.”

“Are you sure he’s my dog?”

“Yah, I’m sure.”

“Do you feed him? Maybe he’s just some dog looking for food.”

“Neto ~ I know he is your dog. There he is now.”

As if hearing his name, Cooper came limping up the beach. He was skinny and beat up from being in a lot of fights but there was no doubt he was Gary Cooper.

The Finland boys helped carry Cooper to the ferry and take him home. We cleaned him up and gave him food and water. We stroked his back and told him we were happy he was home.

Cooper went back to live with Zelmira, no longer a frisky puppy. Instead, he was a tame old dog. He didn’t try to eat her sandals and she wouldn’t have hit him if he did. Zelmira loved Cooper and I think he loved her. They stayed together for a year before she decided to let him go to a cousin’s ranch, to live out his life chasing rabbits and avoiding waves . 

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Christina

Soon after I moved to Mexico in 2005, Christina knocked on my door and asked if she could be my housekeeper. That was a lucky day for me. Christina was the hardest-working woman I’ve ever met.

My house, a huge five-bedroom, six-bathroom historic hacienda, took up half a block. The large kitchen was designed for servants to prepare meals for the famous family who lived next door. A small woman with onyx black eyes, Christina wouldn’t go home until she cleaned every inch of my house, top to bottom, wall to wall, including the courtyard. 

Christina worked only on Tuesdays and Fridays. Neto was my handyman and worked every day. They got along like a cat and a dog.

“Buenos Dias,” Neto would sing to Christina as he came through the door in the morning. Christina wouldn’t answer. She glared at him. If she’d been a real cat, she would have hissed and swatted. Instead, she turned her back and kept sweeping the courtyard. 

And then, because Christina spoke only Spanish and my Spanish was even worse than it is now, I asked Neto to translate for me.

“Christina, I need you to be nice to Ernesto. You are very important to me. I couldn’t take care of this house without you. In fact, I would be lost without you. Please answer Ernesto when he talks to you.”

“Buenos Dias,” she would mumble and then go back to sweeping the massive amount of leaves that had fallen from the mango trees overnight.

My favorite time of day in Mexico has always been early morning. The weather is cool and the sun is low in the sky. Birds swoop and sing as the day is just getting started. Christina liked that time of the day, too. Our fountain bubbled with fresh, cold water inviting birds to come, to drink and to splash.

Evenings were meant for the mourning doves, with their beautiful Coo-oo-oo song. Such sweet, gentle birds! They perched on the rim of the fountain before bravely stepping into the water to shower. 

But Christina’s favorite birds were the shiny black cuervos, the crows who arrived like loud drunken guests early in the morning. She talked to them while she swept the courtyard. She swore that they talked back to her.

I asked her, “Christina, why do you talk to the cuervos and you won’t talk to Ernesto?”

“Because I like the cuervos better, “ she answered. “And besides, they are better looking  than he is.”

One day, I heard Christina having a loud, long conversation with one especially bold crow, sitting high in a tree.

“What is she saying?” I asked Neto.

“She’s asking the crow why he never brings her anything. She is telling the crow that if he wants to shower and drink from the fountain, he needs to bring her a present.”

“Does she believe he understands her?”

“I think she does.” Neto and I shook our heads. “She believes the cuervos are as smart as people.”

The next time Christina came to work, she started her day sweeping the courtyard and talking to the crows, as usual. I looked up as I heard her cry, “Ay! Carumba!” I walked over and saw her rubbing her head. Christina opened her hand to show me a ten peso coin that the crow had dropped on top of her. I never again doubted her ability to talk to birds.

I recently learned that my dear friend, Christina, died three weeks ago of kidney failure. Vaya con Dios, mi amiga. Go in peace. May all the birds in the sky watch over you and sing you home.

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Carnival 2020

There is a saying in Mazatlán, “Time is measured by Carnival.“ In this city of endless fiestas, Carnival is the biggest party of the year. This year’s theme is Somos América: Pasión, Alegria y Esperanza. We are America ~ Passion, Joy and Hope. The mangotes, giant statues representing the theme, are always impressive. This year they are spectacular.

Carnival starts next Thursday and ends on Tuesday, February 25. The following day, Ash Wednesday, marks the beginning of Lent. One of the largest Mardi Gras celebrations in the world, the Mazatlán Carnival, is everyone’s party.

My first Carnival was in 2006, not quite a year after I moved to Mazatlán. The main entrance to the party was half a block from my front door. A lot of Americans and Canadians chose to leave town. I stayed and loved it.

Music from multiple stages ~ a lot trumpets, drums, accordions and tubas ~ blasted non-stop along the beach for six straight days and nights. The parade, a spectacle of lights and girls in skimpy costumes, rode right past my house. Beautiful dancing horses, kings and queens, clowns and floats! I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t take pictures fast enough.

Neto warned me not to go alone along Olas Altas beach, the area most known for non-stop music, unruly drunken behavior, and extravagant fireworks. He tried to convince me, “There are lots of activities for tourists and families along the side streets ~ food and souvenir vendors ~ that you will like.”  But I wanted to go inside.

“Then let me take you to the fireworks on Saturday night. My daughter wants to go. We’ll stop by and get you. Don’t bring a purse.”

Neto showed up at my house at 7:30 with his ten-year-old daughter, Vannya, and her mother, Loca. I was surprise to see Loca. I was even more surprised to see her wearing a surgical mask over her face.  “To protect her from germs,” Neto explained. “It’s her birthday and I had to bring her. It’s the only way she’d let me bring Vannya.”

We found a restaurant with an empty table and three chairs in front of the ocean, something that still amazes me today. People usually reserve spaces months in advance. We grabbed the chairs, ordered french fries and drinks, and waited for the fireworks to begin. With a blast of color and gunpowder, fireworks lit up the sky just as Vannya put her head on the table, closed her eyes, and fell asleep. 

The Combate Naval, the most poplar of all Carnival events, is an over-the-top fireworks display that recalls a naval battle of 1864, when the French Navy attempted to seize the Mazatlán harbor and were met by cannon fire. More than 500,000 people come to watch the re-enactment every year.

Fireworks continued for nearly an hour. Beer and tequila flowed freely. The crowd became more boisterous with every blast. Vannya never woke up. When it was time to leave, the crowded surged toward the entrance. We were swept along in a mad rush of bodies. Neto picked up Vannya, put her over his shoulder and told Loca and me to follow him through the crowd. Loca grabbed him by his belt and I was left behind in a crush of bodies, almost all of them taller than me. 

I grabbed the shirt of a burly Mexican man in front of me. He turned around to see who was hugging his back, “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just hang on. I’ll get you out of here.” I peeled myself away from the crowd as we approached my front door. Neto was waiting for me there, Vannya still asleep on his shoulder. “Thank goodness you are ok,” he said. “I almost lost you.”

I went inside and continued to listen to beautiful mariachi music from a party next door. Neto hailed a pulmonia (golf carts that operate as taxis throughout the city) and took Vannya and Loca home before he returned to meet his friends at the beach.

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Wheels

This week we bought a car for $3400. I’m ok traveling around town by bus. Occasionally a musician will come on the bus through the front door and pay the driver a small fee to play for the passengers. This week a musician strummed a ukulele and belted out a beautiful Mexican ballad. When he finished, he went up and down the aisles, collecting coins for his performance. That doesn’t happen often enough.

Neto has needed a car for a long time. It takes him hours to get around the city on foot and by bicycle. And then, two months ago, his bicycle was stolen. He used to have a beautiful blue 1996 Ford truck but that was impounded when his mechanic left town to live in Brazil. The mechanic’s family had been killed by gangsters and he needed to get out of town in a hurry.  All of the vehicles he’d been working on were locked up behind a chainlink fence and that’s where they still are, unattended and turning to rust. 

I wanted a car to take day-trips out of Mazatlan to some of my favorite places ~ Brujas Beach, El Quelite, Teacapan, and maybe even Las Hacienda, the town where Neto’s mother was born. 

On Wednesday, Neto found a good car ~ a bright lime green 2007 Nissan Tiide. Those models are work horses. They can go long distances and are easy to fix. The car came without a radio (stolen the previous night when it was left outside), gas in the gas tank, a spare tire or a jack. And, of course, it needed insurance and license plates, a lock for the gas tank and one for the steering wheel. 

Driving in Mazatlán is not like driving in Denver. There are potholes and speed bumps on nearly every street and very few stop signs. Drivers cut in front of one another. They dart in and out of traffic. They make U-turns wherever they want and don’t watch for pedestrians. It reminds me of a giant bullfight. Sometimes you are a toreador and sometimes you are the bull. 

Neto’s driving ability has improved with age. It’s a good thing. One time, while taking his mother to La Hacienda in his blue truck, he hit a cow. He claims he didn’t see the cow because it was nighttime and the cow was a dark brown color. She was grazing on the side of the road when BAM! he hit her. Mamacita started screaming and the farmer came cursing out of his house. The cow was not killed but was badly injured. The same was true for the truck.

“You hit my cow, cabrone!” yelled the farmer.

“Your cow is going to be ok. I didn’t kill her.” argued Neto.

“No, but you have to pay me for hitting my cow.”

“How much is it going to cost?”

“6500 pesos.” (About $400.)

“No way. I could buy you a new cow for that much money.”

“Ok. Pay me 6500 pesos, I will sell you this cow.”

“What am I going to do with this crippled cow if I buy it from you?”

“You can take her with you in your truck or you can leave her here with me. I’ll take care of her for you.”

So that’s what Neto did. He bought the cow for 6500 pesos. He named her Prieta (dark girl.)

He continued his trip to La Hacienda. When he returned, he visited Prieta. She was fine.

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Bienvenido a México

 

 

Welcome to Mexico! I’m delighted to be here. But why is traveling always so much more difficult than I think it is going to be? 

To start with ~ ten years ago, flying to Mazatlán from Denver was an easy, direct flight, taking just under 3 hours. We were given blankets if we were cold, food if we were hungry and refills on whatever we were drinking. We were spoiled. Now the flight stops in Phoenix, takes 7 hours total and costs twice as much. No blankets. No food. A cup of coffee, water, or soda. One cup. No refills. Expensive, tasteless food in cardboard boxes is available from the crew and can be paid for only by credit cards. Every fifteen minutes flight attendants come on the loud-speaker and try to interest us in signing up for the company Mastercard. I believe they earn a commission. I think it is considered their retirement fund.

Neto met me at the airport with his nephew, Joshua, driving an Uber car. We loaded my forty-three pound suitcase and my backpack into the trunk and rode the rest of the way in silence. Neto was tired and immediately fell asleep in spite of cars honking all around us and people dodging traffic. Joshua goes to the Mazatlán Nautical Academy and knows a lot about driving cars and boats but not much about speaking English. After a long day, the silence was golden.

Often I am my own worst travel nightmare. Those of you who know me, know that I worry too easily. I worried that our condo would be a dump. No way! It is simply beautiful. Very upscale in a fancy European sort of way with huge ceramic tile on the floors and bathroom walls. Rooms are painted light grey, dark blue and mauve. The kitchen is gorgeous, well-equipped and has plenty of hot water. Poly, our Airbnb host, is gracious, thoughtful and kind. We are two lucky travelers, indeed.

So far Neto has done all the cooking because he’s the best cook. We eat simple Mexican food ~ beans, tortillas and tortas ~ ham sandwiches on bolillos (buns) with avocado, tomatoes and queso fresco cheese. The first night Neto found a taco stand in the neighborhood and brought back a delicious soup made of potatoes and cheese in a spicy tomato broth. After a long day of traveling, it tasted heavenly. I wash the dishes. 

Day two: We unpacked and then walked to a large grocery store about a mile away, where we bought all the things we’d need for the next week ~ cans of tuna, loaves of french bread, ham and cheese, cereal and milk, tortilla chips and sweet pastry. Fresh tomatoes, avocados, bananas, onions, apples, and two kinds of chiles. Jars of salsa and cans of charro beans. Instant coffee, sugar and cream. We took a taxi home, put the food in the cupboards and we were set. Worn-out and hungry, but all set.

Day three: We walked to the ocean (about a mile) and caught a bus downtown. Neto had business to do for his mother and I came along for the ride. The city is getting ready for its world-famous Carnival celebration. Manigotes, huge statues representing the Carnival theme, are being erected along the parade route and in the main plaza. We stopped for lunch at a familiar outdoor restaurant, Tortas Kuwait, that has not changed in the ten years since I lived here. Five thousand steps later, we arrived home, exhausted and happy to be back in our lovely condo. 

The best part about being here is that it is warm. About 80 degrees in the daytime and 68 degrees at night. I can’t even remember what it felt like to be so cold back in Colorado.

I don’t think I have anything left to worry about. 

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Mazatlán ~ Here I Come!

On Tuesday I board the plane from Denver to Mazatlán. Ernesto and I will spend two months in a beautiful Airbnb condo, about a mile from the beach. Mazatlán is the city where I first met Neto. The city where I bought a big house and remodeled it into a hostel for guests from around the world. A city I have not visited for the past nine years. Two months in Mexico! It sounds like heaven on a cold night in Colorado. I can’t wait to get there.

What am I looking forward to in Mazatlán? I’m mostly looking forward to seeing Neto again and having time to write his story, A Citizen of the World. I’m also looking forward to:

  • Eating fresh, warm corn tortillas, homemade ceviche and eggs that were laid that very morning. Drinking homemade limeade and jamaica, a semi-tart drink made from hibiscus flowers.
  • Watching beautiful sunsets. Seeing geckos climb nearby walls. Hugging old friends as we meet again.
  • Listening to mariachis on the beach. Hearing Mexican music fill the air from open windows. Trying to understand Spanish words and phrases that I hear in stores and on the street.

But mostly, I’m looking forward to watching Neto surf the waves of Mazatlán. He is a smooth, graceful surfer who catches waves that most people shy away from. When he comes out of the water, people on the beach are eager to shake his hand. They call him, Ruco, which means “old man” or even “old fart.” In his case, it is a sign of respect that a man his age can outperform all the younger surfers in the water.

But first I need to get through Security and Mexican Customs. I pray that I don’t have to open my backpack in Denver or my suitcase in Mazatlán. I typically don’t take many clothes and I only have the shoes on my feet. I need suitcase room for more essential items.

What, you ask, is more essential than shoes and clothes? I bring a sharp cooking knife and measuring cups and spoons. Nightlights and flashlights. My own dishtowels and dishrags, because Mexican hosts never provide them. I’m bringing a big container of homemade chai latte mix, plus a coffee grinder and special spices in case I need to make more. Oh, and I’m bringing a lot of socks for Neto to wear.

Although these items may seem odd, they are not as strange as some things I’ve carried across the border in the past. I once tried to bring a big sealed jar of Skippy Peanut Butter in my backpack. It was confiscated by Security, who claimed it was a liquid and could be used to make a bomb.

Another time I carried a water pump for a Ford truck in my backpack. I knew I would be stopped for that one. The security guard was very nice when I explained I was bringing it for a friend who couldn’t find one in Mexico. 

He smiled and said, “You must be a very good friend.” 

“Thank you,” I answered. “I think you are probably someone’s very good friend, too.” And I’m sure he is.

Finally, the item that almost didn’t make it through Mexican customs was a roll of fifty yards of fiberglass, used for making and patching surfboards. Because I didn’t bring a receipt showing I purchased it legally from a supplier in California, I had to have an extended interview with a top official. She told me I must to pay a “sales tax” of $25.00 to bring it into the country. I gladly paid the tax and she let me go.

Ah, life in Mexico! I can’t wait to get there.

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Ernesto, Huesos and the Police

When I lived in Mazatlan and Ernesto was my handyman, he often asked his friend, Huesos, to help him on jobs that required a strong back and an extra set of hands. Huesos means “bones” in Spanish. That’s his nickname because, although he is strong, he is exceptionally skinny.

Huesos comes from a wealthy family. His father paid for him to go to private schools in Mazatlán and to dental school in the U.S. But Huesos wasn’t cut out to be a dentist. He would have preferred to be a veterinarian. Or a gardener. Or anything other than a dentist.

The whole time I knew him, Huesos lived with an odd assortment of wild dogs in a homemade shelter on the hill behind my house. When he needed money, he rang my doorbell to see if I had work for him. I often hired him to sweep the courtyard and Neto looked for him whenever he needed a helper who was willing and good-natured. Huesos was both.

One day Neto and Huesos were nearly arrested taking chunks of concrete to the dump. It happened at the end of a long day, after they loaded more than a ton of concrete pieces into the back of Neto’s brother’s pickup truck. Back and forth they went, from my house to the dump, carrying load after load of heavy concrete.

On the last trip to the dump, Neto spotted a man who had a huge hole in his front yard. He stopped the truck and made a deal with the man. Instead of going all the way to the dump, Neto would give him the broken pieces of concrete to fill the hole and the man would be happy.

They started to unload concrete into the hole when the police arrived. The policeman told Neto that someone made an “environmental complaint” against him for dumping concrete. The policeman was going to take both Neto and Huesos to jail and impound the truck. Neto was not eager to go to jail and he was especially unhappy about the truck, since it wasn’t his.

Neto told the policeman he had 100 pesos (about $10.00 U.S. at the time) in his pocket and asked if he could just pay the fine right there. The policeman said that since there were two policemen on duty, the fine would be 200 pesos. If the workers didn’t have the money, they would have to go to jail.

Neto then remembered that he did, indeed, have 200 pesos in his pocket. So he paid the policeman, dumped the concrete in the man’s front yard and everyone was happy.

Sometimes it is Life’s unexpected moments of good fortune that lead to the most happiness.

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Our Lady of Guadalupe

I’ve always believed that Mexican prayers have super powers ~ especially prayers to Our Lady of Guadalupe. Mexican prayers need to be strong because Mexican luck is basically so bad. 

The festival of Our Lady of Guadalupe, December 12, is the most important religious holiday in Mexico. It is particularly important in rural areas where people have a special love of La Virgin. 

I witnessed the Our Lady of Guadalupe festival twice. Ernesto and I were in Puerto Vallarta in 2013 as thousands of peasants from the small towns and ranches marched for days to arrive at the Basilica in time for Mass. There were traditional Aztec dancers mixed with mariachi bands. Parents and grandparents carried tired children in their arms. People slept in fields and bought food along the way. By the time they arrived, they were exhausted but ecstatic. It was a Mexican celebration of hope and joy, like nothing I’ve ever seen before or since.

I was also with Ernesto in the village of Hacienda del Tamarindo in 2010 for the days leading up to the festival. Neto’s mother was born in La Hacienda and many of his relatives still live there. Those who live in the United States return every year for the feast day. We arrived on Neto’s birthday, December 5. The novena, nine days of prayer said  at the same time every day, began the day before, on December 4. At 4:30, the morning of December 6, we heard the loud boom of portable cannons, telling everyone to wake up and meet at the local church to walk through the streets and pray the rosary together before going to Mass at 5:30. The entire town was there. 

I loved meeting Neto’s family, especially his uncles Gero and Ramon, and his Aunt Valvina. Always a gentleman, Uncle Gero jumped up when I entered the room. Although he was almost completely blind, Gero held my hand as we circled the room and he introduced me to everyone there. Uncle Ramon invited us to come to his house to see an injured baby deer he rescued while he was out riding his horse. Ramon showed us how he carried the deer home in his arms. He explained that he would feed it with a bottle until it was old enough to take back to the woods where it belonged. Aunt Valvina proudly showed me her home. I saw the sewing room where she makes all her own quilts, curtains and tablecloths. I was fascinated as she demonstrated the barracho room ~ a special bedroom off the courtyard filled with bunks for people who are too drunk to be allowed into the house. The barrachos sleep together, away from rest of the family, until they stumble into the kitchen the next morning looking for fresh rolls and hot coffee.

Like most homes in rural Mexico, Valvina and Gero’s home has no heat and no hot water. It was my first experience taking a shower using only a bucket a cold water. 

Neto’s family is wonderful  to be around. Not only are they breathtakingly handsome, they are charming and full of joy. They tell the same stories and laugh every time they hear them again. When it was time to leave, Neto’s cousins wished us a safe trip home. They told Neto “We like Lynda a lot. How can we get you to bring her back here again.” Neto answered, “Hot water would help!”