Abuelitos in Mexico III

But, as they say, the night was darkest just before the dawn. I was perhaps so busy worrying as I drove steely-eyed onward (though trying not to show it, of course) that I failed to notice the rain had begun to diminish. Finally, we could all breath a collective sigh of relief. Now, it was just the time between us and San Miguel, so I suggested we should play 20 Questions. This is a game I love and one in which I engage with a great of focus and seriousness. But, these three were amateurs. At first, my dad didn’t want to play at all. “How can I say yes or no to that question, not possibly being able to know everything about that person?” My mom and Ale played along willingly, but they played along, “Has this person ever been to Iowa?—ha, ha, ha!!" Normally I would have been more annoyed, but I was happy to get us all involved in an activity that was taking our minds off of the road. And, mercifully, within an a couple of hours, we were coming over the ridge and looking down onto the quaintly cobble-stoned streets of San Miguel de Allende. And even more mercifully, we very quickly found a reasonable hotel one block off the main square, at none other than: “Hotel San Miguelito.” I shit you not. Hopefully, this had to be an auspicious sign.

Ale said she was tired and would stay in with the baby. My parents said they thought they would stay in as well. Ale has been to San Miguel on several occasions so she could afford to miss this part of the agenda. Her excuse that she was too tired to come out would stand. (Plus she’s my wife and I always go along with what she says.) But, blisters, soaking wet, long day, old people—none of these excuses were going to fly with me! “I really, really think you should come on out for a little bit, at least. After all...we came all this way.” (As if they needed reminding.) And come out they did. Weren’t these the people that always used to make me do things? I really thought they were going to tell me to buzz off at this point. But, they were real troopers and came out for a stroll on the town and a drink at the very classy Tio Lucas restaurant. As we sat relaxing, listening to jazz, snacking on some delicious appetizers, chatting and sipping our whiskeys, the whole long, scary, crazy drive seemed to melt away into the distant and harmless past. Or did it? It was during our tranquil time at Tio Lucas that my parents decided to share with me that their trip to Mexico had prompted them to rewrite-up their will right before they left, and that I would be the executor of such. Geez, I laughed uncomfortably, what could have made them think their lives would have been at risk by coming to see me in Mexico?

The next day we woke up relatively early and I took my folks on a daylight tour of that most delightful of Mexican cities that is San Miguel de Allende. We had coffee and molletes off the little zocalo before strolling through the town, taking a peek at some cathedrals and parks before strolling through the market and buying some fruit. By mid-day we were back on the road, headed toward Guanajuato by way of Dolores, the town where Mexican Independence was born. Dolores is nothing particularly special, but it was cool to stand in the very spot of the original Grito de Independencia. Plus my folks got to see me bribe a cop in order to secure prime parking on the street. I’m not sure what they thought of that, but they definitely appeared to enjoy the extremely scenic drive over the mountains to Guanajuato, where we got out several times to snap some photos.

Guanajuato: the picturesque European-like city that would surely impress my parents of the wonders of Mexico. This would be a hit for sure. Of course, it can get a little busy and crowded on Saturday. And my parents had experienced a rough couple of days, so, I hoped it wouldn’t be TOO lively there. But, this tour was apparently about suffering, not hope. So, it was only fitting that we should arrive in Guanajuato on the last Saturday of the Cervantino Festival, a month long theatre, art and DRINKING bonanza that every Mexican teen and twenty something pilgrimages at least once in their lifetime. Just looking at the crowd made me ill. This would be the point where my parents said, “enough!” But, it was time for a bit of luck. Making our way through the obscenely crowded streets would have been unbearable—I’m not sure my parents would have survived—except for the saving grace of having the stroller with us. Contrary to intuition, the stroller is not a hindrance in situations like these; it magically serves as a Moses-like staff that parts the Red Sea of even the most crowded and drunken crowds. People see you coming with a baby in a stroller and they make way without any complaint. Using this method, we managed to get through the mob, check out the beautiful town, and find a seat in a nice restaurant in the Jardin Central, where we enjoyed another tasty Mexican meal, including pozole. I bought my mom a snazzy poncho and we even squeezed in some silver shopping before heading back to the Jeep for the final leg of our journey.

A four and a half hour long leg, in the dark, over the mountains to be exact. I too was beginning to feel the wear of such action-packed four days; but the circle needed to be completed. And besides, my friend Micah was having a Halloween party that night! So, I drove like a man possessed for the DF. This time there was no apocalyptic rainstorm—oh no—only some ridiculously blinding fog throughout the windy, mountainous roads. Once again, I drove through it all with unyielding focus, playing it cool without letting on to anyone of my own fear and self-doubt, squinting through the fog and somehow managing to get us all to our destination in one piece.

And even though we arrived home in time for me to technically make it to the party, I decided to stay in and hit the hay. Tomorrow would be the last day of my parents trip, and I wanted to be in shape to enjoy it with them. Sunday ended up being like a day like we would have had at home in NJ. Ale, my mom and I went shopping in the morning which allowed me to take a detour and show her the ASF campus. While we all pitched in a bit on the cooking in the afternoon, my dad and I watched the Eagles beat the shit of the Giants. (Sweet!) “Dada” and “Nana” took the opportunity to goo-goo, gah-gah with their newest grandson on the bed. It was everything I missed about not having them around. It was a relaxing and refreshing day of quiet family time that I hoped would leave them rested, refreshed and ready to catch their plane the next morning after a good night’s sleep.

But, I already told you that this trip was about suffering, not hope. So, I shouldn’t have been surprised one bit when I came out of my room, ready to head to work Monday morning to find out that my mom was having another “spell.” She was lying on the couch, pale and quiet. She then confessed that she normally doesn’t do great getting up in the pre-dawn hours and that she’d felt lightheaded on several mornings in our apartment. It then occured to me that I had not seriously considered the well documented draining effects of the high altitude of Mexico City on my newly-arrived, aging, parents as I drug them all over tarnation. (Did I mention that I am an idiot of sorts?) We had been planning on putting them into a radio cab and sending them on their way, but suddenly that plan was out the window. Ale quickly seized control. She’d go with them to the airport and I’d stay home with Miguel, work be damned. Luckily, when Louanne hit the cool air outside the airport, her system rebooted and she was able to board and fly home without incident.

Of course, I didn’t find this out until much later in the day when I received and email to that effect. In the meantime, I spent the day thinking, "Dude, what is wrong with you? You practically killed your parents with this trip!" And even though I was thinking that mostly tongue-in-cheek (I was pretty sure, despite the frenetic pace, that they had had a quite a good time) I then found myself taking this a step further, allowing the most dreadful scenario to play out in my head. What if this time my mom did not recover from her spell on the plane and make it safely home to NJ? I spent the day pondering what I already know to be true, that these two most special and important people in my life will someday come to the end of their tour here on earth. The hollow and ugly feeling was practically unbearable, and yet I know it is only a smidgen of what the real feeling will surely be when the awful time comes. I love them both so much I can hardly continue typing these words right now. In fact, I couldn’t. I had to stop and cry for a few minutes.

It is quite obvious as I type now, that I spent so much effort trying to show my parents a good time because I love them more than I can possibly describe. And because I was eager to share with them what a good life I have here in Mexico so they can know for certain that I am happy, because I know that’s important to them. I can only hope that they enjoyed their visit to Mexico more than they endured it. I'm fairly certain that is the case. I know I am definitely glad they came. And Mom and Dad--next time you come down--I PROMISE, we’ll take it easy.

Ya Llego! (He's finally arrived!)

Well, it was a long time coming, 39 weeks to be somewhat exact (I still have yet to get a firm grip on the due date predicting process) but on August 1, 2009 at 8:53 am, in Torreon, Coahuila, Mexico, our son Miguel Alberto Hennessy Diaz Alvarado was born. It wasn't exactly pretty. I mean, maybe it was pretty as far as Cesarean surgery goes, but from a layman’s perspective it was pretty gruesome. They just sliced her open and yanked him on out of there, no "gootchie, gootchie-goo, are you ready to enter the world, little fella?" Nope, they just grab 'em by the ankles and yank con mucho gusto. Ale had no clue what was going on as her view was blocked from all of the gore. I tried not to look, but when I did, I was reminded of the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan. I literally saw her guts oozing out. Not cool. Really, really not cool. (We would learn a week later that her bleeding had been abnormally profuse.) Thankfully, Ale was completely oblivious to the horror show talking place in her abdomen. Why wouldn’t she be? She was locally numbed and mildly jacked up on happy gas. And there were no obvious clues for her. The doctors were goofing around during the operation like they were socializing at an after work happy hour. The anesthesiologist sat off to the side reading a Harry Potter book. (Is this proper procedure?) So, I played along too, telling Ale that “it doesn’t look so bad, and everything is fine.” And meanwhile, on the inside, I was totally freaking out. I tried not to react outwardly—like squeezing the shit out of her hand—which I caught myself doing—and just kept chatting with her to keep her distracted and calm. I was cracking jokes to her like, "hey, while you're in there how bout sucking out some fat, or sewing up my stomach a little tighter, or taking a look for my missing USB..."

But, I don’t want to mislead you; this birthing process hasn't been all fun and games. Some of you have already heard about the insurance disaster that befell us on the road to parenthood. We had reviewed my insurance policy manual from work before we were married and were happy to learn that all we had to do was tell them we were married and "poof!" Ale was covered under my plan. The insurance offered a pretty good maternity package—not enough to cover everything soup to nuts—but enough to make it very bearable, so we decided to get right to work (if you know what I mean!) as soon as we were married, which we did. But, of course, this being Mexico and all, there had to be a glitch somewhere. Such as my school renegotiating the insurance plan over the summer in a way that altered the previous maternity coverage, and not alerting the employees (read: me) to this fact. Yes, (as they would later enjoy pointing out to us) they had put a new insurance manual in every teacher's mailbox at the beginning of the school year; but, it was one of many, many things shoved into my mailbox that first week of school. And I had no reason to believe it wasn't exactly the same manual as the same colored and titled manual I had received a year ago when I started working at ASF. I was very wrong.

It seemed there were many significant policy changes reflected all over the new manual, including this little beauty that had not been in the manual we used to make our decision to get pregnant: "childbirth is covered only after a waiting period of 12 months." Of course, we did not discover this minor point until Ale had been on the policy for six months, just three months before we were due to give birth (I say "we", knowing she did all the work in the pregnancy and birth—if you know what I mean). This was when Human Resources informed Ale that the 9,000 pesos of reimbursement she was seeking for prenatal doctor visits was unavailable to her according to the new insurance policy. She further learned that even though I was an employee in good standing who had been paying into his insurance policy for two years, and was legally married to a woman who had been an officially declared dependant member of my insurance plan for 6 months, we would not be receiving any maternity coverage. ANY COVERAGE. Zero. Zilch, Goose egg. Or as they say down here in Mexico, “nada.”

Sometimes things are so screwed up you just can't even get too upset about them. And in life (and perhaps especially in Mexico), you almost begin to expect this kind of stuff. So, I didn't go postal on anyone, though the urge was there for about two minutes. Our baby was going to be born four months before Ale would be eligible for any maternity coverage and there did not appear to be much we could do about it. We would have surely waited four months if we had known and saved ourselves thousands of dollars. Though I must say now, as I sit here typing and looking over at Miguelito in the crib beside me, I wouldn't trade this particular baby for all the insurance coverage in the world.

Besides, in the end, things got much better for us with regard to the maternity costs. At a meeting I had with the school's director, he and the head of Human Resources, said we were indeed uncovered for childbirth but at least were honest enough to admit it would have been a good idea to have notified the employees that the insurance coverage had changed over the summer. “Note to self for next year,” he said, and actually scribbled a note on a pad, (though it could have been an obscene sketch for all I know, like that guy in The Big Lebowski drew when he pretended to write something down). In a good faith effort he said he would talk to the insurance company and see what he could do. I wasn't expecting much, so I was pleasantly surprised when he came back and said he had talked them into covering 20,000 pesos of the total costs. Not too shabby. Of course, we are waiting to find out how many of the receipts will be accepted when we turn them in. One t left uncrossed or i left un-dotted in standard Mexican bureaucracy is enough to get you a "no podemos aceptar esto”—we can’t accept this.

We definitely appreciated the efforts of my boss in getting us 20,000 pesos of re-imbursement coverage. That was nice for sure; but from our perspective it was the lack of communication on their end that caused us the problem in the first place. It was what happened next that really floored us. It happened at the end of the year party I hosted to honor and celebrate the ASF friends that would be leaving us at the end of the year. The centerpiece of the event was a 17 minute slideshow I put together featuring pictures of us all laughing, playing, traveling, laying on beaches, climbing mountains, rafting rivers, partying, singing, dressing up in costumes, watching bullfights and futbol matches, dancing, and…well, yeah, and drinking little bit along the way. After the slideshow was done, my good friends Jordan and Will unexpectedly jumped up front of the room, busted out a bunch of items and began telling everyone it was time for the drawing of the raffle they had conducted previously at school. WTF? A raffle we would come to find out raised 12,000 pesos for the “Miguelito Birth Fund.” Wow. We were shocked, elated and humbled. I thought of the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, where Clarence the angel writes to George, the despaired man, “no man is failure who has friends.” It was an overwhelming gift and an awesome display of friendship. We are sincerely indebted to everyone who contributed, especially Jordan who apparently spearheaded the idea.

These two windfalls were great, but they only got us about half way to full maternity coverage, so we decided to do something drastic. We’d have the baby in Torreon, Ale’s home town, a thousand miles north of Mexico City where the hospitals are just as nice--if not nicer--and half the price. And it was also the place where Ale’s cousin had graciously offered to deliver the baby for free. This meant that immediately after coming home from a visit to NJ in early July, Ale would have to head to Torreon and begin the final preparations for D-elivery day. Meanwhile, back in the DF, I took some Spanish classes in the mornings and spend my evenings remodeling the Miguelito’s room and painting the apartment. It was a long time for us to be apart, but we needed to focus on saving money. Any sort of abnormality with the birth and we would be flying without an insurance net. And we remained acutely aware of the loss of income from Ale in the months following the birth.

After three and a half weeks living alone I hit the road in the 1996 Jeep Cherokee that my buddy Will sold us. (Well, he left us the keys to the car when he left for Chicago. He’ll be lucky to see one peso of that money. Sucker!) Driving to Torreon would take about 12 hours—without any sort of complications. My plan was to drive to Zacatecas, a beautiful colonial silver mining town a little over half-way on day one, spend the evening poking around the town and be in Torreon by Friday afternoon to take Ale to the hospital for her scheduled admittance for a C-section by Friday evening. For anyone who’s toured around Mexico on the highways, you know that you often see cars on the side of the road with their hoods propped up and the 16 passengers standing around scratching their heads in the heat. When I see this, I probably think the same thing everyone else does, “Poor bastards; man I’m glad that’s not me.” And for me, I always follow that up with, “What the hell would I do if I were to break down out here in the middle of nowhere? I wouldn't know where to begin."

So you can imagine my utter terror when I felt the truck jerking spastically up a hill and I looked at the dash to see the engine light flashing angrily. By the time I came to a stop, steam was flowing profusely out from under the hood. Will had mentioned something about a coolant leak before he left for Chicago—maybe this is what he meant. I looked around in all directions at the long straight highway and at the unending stretch of Mexican wilderness. Not forest, not desert, just miles of semi-arid terrain, replete with red clay, scrubby trees, cactus, and giant flat mesas in the distance. What I didn’t see was any signs of civilization. FUCK ME. Ale is going to kill me if I die out here and do not make it to the birth of our first son. I suppose I could hitch-hike, but that has its downside in Northern Mexico, where the Narco-traffickers’ second favorite pastime after beheading each other and the police over drug business is kidnapping people who they think have money—like gringos stranded on the side of the road. Or I could try to walk to somewhere across the vast plains, but would I be eaten by wolves or just die of exposure?

OK, so I was overreacting. Just a little. I had seen some signs a while back indicating a call box for highway assistance. I called Ale and told her I was going to wait for the truck to cool down then drive slowly to the next call box station. “That thing is not going to work!” she scolded. “This is Mexico!” But, I had to try. And though the line was slightly garbled, it did work. And get this: a guy in a brand new service truck showed up in less than two minutes and began filling my radiator with water. For free. No lie. I’d like to see you find that sort of service in the U.S.

Salvation. This was going to be a breeze! This elation lasted until I started the car and watched the water flowed out of the bottom of the engine like Niagara Falls. It was obvious that the water pump had died in the heat of the drive.

Now, let me say a word about my communication skills in situations like this. Since I speak English all day at work, all evening at home with my bi-lingual wife, and all weekends with my English speaking gringo and/or bi-lingual Mexican friends—I rarely speak the Spanish outside of ordering food, buying stuff and ordering taxi drivers around. I rarely “have to” speak Spanish, so I usually don’t. (Trust me, I loath myself for this laziness.) Generally speaking, I can make myself generally understood in a multitude of situations. But, what I have trouble with is understanding people who speak quickly, with poor diction, and in colloquial phrases and expressions not found in a Spanish textbook or in technical language unfamiliar to me—which is to say, the way a highway service truck driver talks. So, after we figure out that water isn’t going to fix this problem, he starts laying out my options while I try to follow. What I basically understood was that I had two choices—well, three, if you count dying of exposure—but he was explaining two: 1) call and wait some significant amount of time for a tow truck to take me to Aguascalientes, the next town up the highway, or 2) Let him bumper-push me there. The road service was free, since it is part of the benefits you get from paying the ridiculously high road toll fares in Mexico-the other benefit being not having to dodge giant car-swallowing pot holes. At this moment I realized I would never complain about the toll costs again. Still, I couldn’t quite make out whether the tow would be included or would cost extra. But, before I clarified any further, I quickly decided on the bumper push. The jeep was in pretty good physical shape, except for a slightly bent bumper in the back, so it wouldn’t hurt anything. Shit, maybe this would event help bang it back into place. But, more importantly, I had to get to Aguascalientes in time to find a mechanic who was still open. It was already 6:30 pm.

The bumper push ride was weird, I’ll admit. I felt retarded, like I was pretending to drive down the highway in a soapbox go cart without an engine. And it felt wrong. No way would they ever let a truck bumper-push another car down the right hand lane of a four lane interstate highway for 20 kilometers, complete with tractor trailers passing in the left lane at 80+ miles an hour. (I felt less stupid about how I must have looked when on the way back from Torreon, I witnessed an old beat up pick-up truck from the 70's, with six people in the front and a horse standing tied in the bed, being pushed in the same fashion.) I say 20 kilometers because that’s the best estimate I came up with as we drove—as he drove and I coasted—toward Aguascalientes. Soon after we got started, I saw a sign that said, Aguascalientes, 15 kilometers. Some quick math in my head told me that was about nine miles. Not too close, but not too far. After well over five minutes of being pushed at around 30-40 mph, I figured I must be less than ten kilometers away, making good progress. Until I saw a second sign, Aguascalientes: 14 kilometers. Gotta love Mexico. Once on a trip with Jim Weathers and friends we passed a sign that said: Pachuca 74 kilometers; then in less than a minute later saw another reading, Pachuca 57 kilometers. We all laughed knowing we had just passed through a Mexican time warp.

By the time I was shoved unceremoniously off the highway onto a road within the Aguascalientes city limits, it was after 7 pm. After he gave me directions on where to find some mechanic shops, I offered him 60 Pesos to which he made a sincere an honest gesture of “thanks, but that’s not necessary.” He made it clear once again that the help was free, and I made it clear to him that it was my pleasure to tip him.

I located a strip lined with ratty looking mechanic shops on the outskirts of town, identified by the often hand painted signs on the cement walls. As I drove past I saw, Closed… Closed…Closed. Then, Open—but with three cars in front with their hoods up. Great. This guy was the only one open and he was already busy. If I was going to get this problem solved immediately, he was going to ass rape me for it for sure. Or not. The guy was actually really nice and spoke some passable English. I told him I needed to be in Torreon the next day for my son’s scheduled birth and therefore really needed this repair completed that evening. After he had some discussion with the other guy working there they said they could have it done by 10 pm, but warned against driving out onto the highway that night. After my brief panic on the side of the road, I knew what he was talking about. I’d test drive it that night to make sure the repair had done its job and head out in the morning light. Which is exactly what I did. The repairs went off without a hitch, I picked it up by 10:30 and paid 150 bucks. I’m not sure what it would have cost if I didn’t need a rush job, or if I was able to seek competitive prices from other places, but given the circumstances, it all seemed to be worth it. The mechanic directed me to a very decent hotel for 25 dollars a night and I passed the time waiting for the Jeep by walking around the center of Aguascalientes. It was OK, but nothing too special. Most importantly, when I drove around town for about 30 minutes after I picked up the Jeep (I think the shemale hookers thought I was actually on the prowl) there were no signs of overheating. I was good to go.

The next morning things got off to an auspicious start when outside the hotel I saw a taco stand already open at 9am. I love many, many things about Mexico, and the tacos are definitely up there with the best of the rest at the top of the list. I had three tacos of various types of pork and a fresh squeezed orange juice before I hopped on the freeway and headed north. The further north I drove the more isolated the highway became. This was classic Mexican northern desert terrain. Complete with cacti, rocks, mountains and sky—and little else. I suddenly realized how lucky I was to have broken down where I did the day before. THIS was barren middle-of-no-where. And another thing had changed; I was no longer on a nice toll highway with road service. Break down here and there's not service truck to the rescue. Plus, instead of two lanes heading in each direction in true highway fashion, the road had become two single lanes in opposing directions--with a twist. Each lane had a half a shoulder on each side. When I say half a shoulder I mean just that. There was a dotted line with half a lane on each side of the lane. And beyond that, was a significant drop-off or a ditch. Like much of driving in central Mexico, many parts of the road are often steeply uphill, and many of the cars and trucks are slow, so it is necessary for cars to be able to pass in order to avoid long back-ups of traffic. But, on a simple two lane highway, how can this be done?

Well, in Mexico, it’s done by having the slow cars on both sides of the highway sliding over onto the half-a-shoulder so that a third lane is created in the middle of the road for the passing cars. Pretty ingenious, if this is all the flat road surface with which you have to work. I suppose. (Of course, on the other hand, if you’re going to go to the trouble of building a highway across a mountainous desert, why not go all the way and build four lanes?) So, for the next 150 miles I was passing cars and trucks down this improvised middle lane at 80 miles an hour. This may sound simple enough, but understand that it is a delicate dance that only works if all the dancers are aware of each other and dancing together. If everyone isn’t paying close attention, it can quickly turn into a frightening game of head-on chicken. There were times when I was leisurely scoping out the harsh, but beautiful, landscape when I realized that the oncoming traffic was in a middle lane passing situation, one vehicle half way on the side of the road and the other screaming directly at the front end of my car. Luckily, I always managed to notice this before the deadly, inevitable contact. Or, there were other times when I was passing a slow moving truck in front of me, hoping and praying that the oncoming driver realized he needed to get on the half-shoulder before we sent each other into a fiery inferno. Luckily, they did. Perhaps the worst was passing agiant semi with another 18 wheeler coming the other way. It was like the “you’re going the wrong way” scene from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Seriously scary shit.

So, I managed to avoid a catastrophic head-on collision and arrived in Torreon by mid afternoon. By 9 pm Ale and I were settled into our maternity suite, which consisted of surprisingly nice digs. Sort of a clean Best Western feel. While she filled out paperwork and got some tests done and an IV inserted, I headed over to the mall next door to get something to eat.

In between the hospital and the mall was the Terraza Garibaldi restaurant (sort of a Mexican Fridays of sorts, with music blaring 1oxs louder). While I stopped to inquire about the food, I also told him about my impending fatherly status. “Felicidades Cabron!” he congratulated me before telling me they didn’t do food to go. So, I headed into the adjoining mall to get some fast food. Just my luck, everything was already closed. When I explained this to the host on the way back to the hospital, he told me to wait while he talked to the manager. I can only suppose he told him I was at the hospital next door awaiting the birth of my first son, because all of a sudden I was being given the VIP treatment. They didn’t allow people to sit at the bar, but they grabbed a chair from a reserved table and set me up there with a beer and a shot of tequila that the manager made a big show of saying was on the house. I ordered some food and began watching the music videos on the large screens throughout the restaurant, while I sipped by beer and tequilia. The place was totally packed, and the food was taking quite a while, so I ordered a couple more shots of tequilia as I waited. Then something strange began happening. The waiters in the joint were literally falling all over themselves trying to serve me. Sometimes pushing each other out of the way to stand in front of me. "Pick me to wait on you," they seemed to be saying, though it was hard to hear anything with the music blaring. Apparently, they had misinterpreted the managers actions to mean I was someone rich or important. They were clearly unaware that I was just an average guy. And they also did not understand that I was waiting on food to go because they kept coming over and trying to set up a placemat and diningware for me. I literally had to tell five different waiters that I dind’t need their help, as they groveled for a chance to serve me. I could tell that people were watching this and wondering who I was and what was going on. It was a bit surreal to say the least. The buzz I took back to the hotel was just enough to get me to sleep without too much tossing and turning on the not-so-great bed the night before the big day.

The next morning came soon enough and we headed down into the OR for the big event. Ale went in before me and as I was filling out the paper work to be allowed into the surgery, the woman asked me who the doctor was performing the operation. Umm… “Ale’s cousin,"--all I knew at that point,--was probably not going to be enough information. Then somehow my feeble brain remembered her first name, “Marcela!" I said proudly. She gave me a blank stare. When she realized I had nothing else to offer, she asked another woman who stood nearby if she knew a doctor Marcela something, and she replied, “That's Dr. Almaguer.” Just as she was finally getting the answer she needed, this really hot chick came walking down the hall, big black Mexican eyes, bright smile, shapely legs supported by bright turquois-blue high heals that matched her blouse, earings and hairband. I’m doctor Almaguer!” she said, turning toward me, immediately recognizing me the gringo husband she'd heard about. Jesus, I thought, this is the doctor!? Ale told me she was cute, but this was over the top. Thank god she would be covered during the C-section from head to toe with surgical attire or this hot doc would be distracting me in the worst possible way at the worst possible time. Ale’s pretty tolerant about me appreciating women out in the world, but I’m fairly certain that ogling another woman while your wife is giving birth to your son is a absolute and unforgiveable no-no.

Actually, technically speaking, sexy Doctor Marcela was not covered from head to toe—her surgical mask covered only her mouth, leaving her nose exposed. Now, I don’t know much of anything about how to do surgery on pregnant women, but I’m pretty sure that for surgical masks to be effective, they need to be covering both the mouth and the nose. I was also pretty confident that this well dressed and beautiful doctor did not have any serious communicable diseases—you know, like tuberculosis or malaria—but it was the principle of the matter that bugged me. God forbid she sneezed some common cold germs into the open cavern before her, the one containing my wife’s exposed entrails, or into the very first breath of my emerging three kilogram son. I’ll admit, this actually bugged me quite a bit. But, the fact that she was doing this surgergy for free prevented me from saying anything. That, and the fact that my focus was on getting Ale through this traumatic experience as best I could.

As described at the beginning of this narrative, the birth of my son was all somewhat surreal: Harry Potter, comedic doctors, Saving Private Ryan, oblivious Ale, and then they yanked this little naked man from my wife’s stomach. Guero, ("whitey") she said matter of factly as they pulled him up by his ankles--though he looked quite purple to me at that moment. And even though I “knew” that she was pregnant and I had watched her stomach had grow tremendously over the months, it was almost a surprise to see him appear like that. Holy shit! There really IS a baby in there! He wasn’t in front of us for long, the pediatrician gave Ale and I a quick look-see and quickly carted him off to an unseen room in the back.

And then it began. The worrying. Welcome to the worrying. We were parents for all of five minutes and already we were racked with concern. Why did they take him so quickly? Is he OK? What are they doing to him back there? What debilitating and expensive disorder had they discovered? Before Ale was done being sewed up, she demanded I go and check on our son. When I got back there, they doctor was busy jamming a suction probe up his nose and down his throat. “Look” he said reassuringly in broken English, “Five toes and five hands.” Yeah, pal, I get the point; but even as he lifted the tiny hands for me to see I was almost afraid to look—what if he actually did have six fingers and eight toes, or any number of other problems? Ugh.

We spent the next few days watching TV, reading a baby book, allowing Ale to recover from surgery, and waiting for the nurses to drop Miguelito off to us for various stints before taking him back for tests and check-ups. On the third night, they gave him to us for keeps, or so we thought. The next morning, Miguelito recieved a final check-up while we packed. Then, as were waiting for them to hand him over for the last time, they announced that his bilirubin count had jumped from 6 to 10 over the last two days. He was turning yellow with jaundice (which his inexperienced and obviously terrible parents had failed to notice) and he would require another 24 hours in the hospital receiving “photo therapy.” This is a fancy way of saying he needed to lay in a baby tanning bed for a while. He looked pretty weird laid out in all his scrawny glory wearing a pair of eye covers attached to his face with Frankenstein bolt-like Velcro buttons glued to his temples. Before we left the hospital we jumped on the internet and Googled bilirubin, finding to our horror that this relatively normal condition, if extreme, could cause brain damage. BRAIN DAMAGE!? So, the worrying rocketed to a new level. Ale and I were racked with dispair as we headed home from the hospital without our beloved newborn son. That night, Ale’s mother mercifully bought me a bottle of Jack Daniels so I could take the edge of my hysteria and get to sleep. (Have I mentioned that I LOVE my mother-in-law?)

The following day Miguelito was released from the hospital, his photo therapy had brought his bilirubin count down a bit to eight. Apparently the light rays make it easier to break down these naturally produced toxins and get them out of his system through his natural bowel movements. The cause of the problem was the incompatibility of blood types between him and his mother. We learned that, other than exposing him to sunlight, one way to get him to pass these natural toxins is to get him eating lots of breast milk, a natural laxative, and in turn, getting him to shit out these toxins more quickly. So, when we took him home the next day, our immediate concern was getting him sufficient breast milk to cause him regular bowel movements. Problem was, Ale was not yet producing much milk. In fact, she wasn’t yet producing any actual leche at all, only the pre-milk substance called colostrum that precedes milk for several days when mothers are breast feeding. And to make matters worse, this milk is further delayed in women who have Caesarian births. Ugh, again.

So, for the next few days most of our worry revolved around getting our beautiful and perfect child to suckle frequently at the magnificent and enormous breasts of his mother. This was done with limited success, so we needed to supplement his feeding with formula from a bottle. But, the frequent crapping, so famous among the lore of newborns, and the salvation from brain damage that this crapping would bring, remained elusive. A couple of rabbit-like pellets here, some greenish skid-marks there, but no quality dumps. And so, our parental fretting grew. We were sunbathing Miguelito in indirect sun throughout the day in order to help his body process these nasty bilirubins, but he needed to start evacuating his tiny bowels regularly in order to fully ensure he would not be brain damaged and grow into some sort of demented serial killer. Or worse yet, a Dallas Cowboys or Boston Redsocks fan. The stakes were high. So, when two days later, we woke at 2 am to find a mound of squishy shit in his diaper, Ale and I rejoiced over this blessing from the gods. “Yay!!,” we literally screamed as we high-fived each other. And then it hit me like a ton of…shit. People had been telling me that being a parent was going to “change my life in ways that I could not imagine.” Suddenly, I knew what they meant. Here I was, 43 years old, a well educated professional, successful teacher, part time musician, frequent world traveler, lover of good food, drink, movies, music, etc., and the thing that was bringing me a joy beyond all possible comprehension was a pile of steaming poo in my son’s diaper. Yeah, I’d say things have changed.

Days later, we would visit the pediatrician again to learn, despite all our fears and paranoia, that our son was as healthy and normal as any parent could expect. Miguel Alberto Hennessy Diaz Alvarado was doing just fine, even if his mother and father are in for a lifetime of more worry and anxiety. But, especially a lifetime of love!

Long Time No Blog

Que Tal?? Yes, despite not hearing from me for quite some time, I did manage to get married since my last post. Yup, no last minute jitters, panic attacks, or running for the hills—on her part I mean, thank God—so we wrapped up the civil ceremony on the beach (more or less) as we had planned.

There’s a lot to tell about our awesome week and wedding, but believe it or not I’m still trying to gather and organize photos to post. (You bastards who are holding out on me--send me the proof!) So, while you wait another week or two for that story and pics, let me catch you up on a few highlights over the past six months.

Work—I started the year as the new Social Studies Department Head. Luckily, I have the best department in the school. It is great working with them, especially with helping a new teacher in the department. Also, the second time through my Western Civ curriculum has been even more fun than last year. This year’s crop of sophomores is super nice, cooperative and eager to learn. I’m also teaching a new elective course—Genocide—during the spring semester. The students and I are very excited about it and I fear the early positive response will mean more students than I can handle next year. The construction on the high school additions and renovations continues, but the suffering is more bearable as we can see the light at the end of the tunnel. The high school classrooms are completed, if with a few remaining kinks. It may be two years later than first projected—but the definitive end IS coming.

Travel—I spent a couple of weeks in Oaxaca in August doing more Spanish studies and checking out things there. It was a great time. I actually started a more detailed blog of those experiences but never finished it once I got into the grind of the day to day with work. I met some great people, took more Salsa lessons, did a weekend hike through the mountains, and enjoyed the many events connected to the annual Guelaguetza indigenous festival going on while I was there. It was truly a great two weeks. Perhaps, I’ll finish that story and send it on later. The first trip of the semester was a weekender to the old colonial town of Taxco with Ale, Marlowe and Will. This was at its core a wedding ring shopping trip, since Taxco is a renowned silver mining town and outlet. We ended up with two beautiful rings (plus quite a bit of other silver stuff for Ale—how did that happen!?) and had a lot of fun eating and drinking the weekend away. One memorable moment came during a detour we took on the way home to a “zoofari” when Will almost had his head bitten off by a white Siberian tiger who took Will’s leaning out of the car window twenty feet from the large carnivorous beast as an invitation to lunch. The other significant trip we took—other than getting married in Tulum—was a four day weekend to Morelia for a our second annual visit to the International Film Festival there. We met friends Tina and Jackie there for a smorgasbord of movies from around the globe. I think we saw over 20 movies in four days—quite a feat, even for movie buffs like us. Being short on cash after buying/furnishing the apartment and having the wedding meant low key Christmas vacation, which we spent at my friend Steve’s hacienda in nearby Tepoztlan. I watched the property and his three awesome dogs (two Rottweilers and a German Shepherd) while he was away and took some more Spanish classes for part of the week. Ale joined me off an on while I was there, the last time for Steve’s New Year’s Eve party. His place is amazing. It is mostly the brainchild of his wife Sally, a talented architect who has been working on creating this special place, bit by bit, over the past fifteen years. It is located in the countryside outside of Tepotzlan, surrounded by these rocky mountains through which I would walk the dogs each morning. Super relaxing. A more recent trip took us to Malinalco, another cute little colonial town built on a pre-Columbian site nestled in similarly craggy mountains. We found a hotel with a pool on a hill overlooking the main square for 350 pesos a night. Friends Tim, Corbin, Ryan and Lydie joined us for part of the time. We enjoyed several great meals, especially the town’s specialty, fresh trout, as well as a nice hike up to an Aztec temple on the top of one of the mountains. I sat up there, and later by the pool, reading an interesting book about Maliche, the woman so maligned for helping Cortez conquer the Aztecs. Friends and family continue to threaten to visit us, but no one has confirmed anything definite. So, I’m about to start putting together some Spring Break plans.

Housing—Last June, we decided to buy this apartment in the southern part of Colonia Hipodroma Condesa on the Escondon border. Not the best location in La Condesa, which is one of the nicer-hipper colonias, but all in all it is a very nice apartment and came at a very good price. The journey through Mexican financial bureaucracy was a true test of our patience. Several times we were given conflicting information about requirements, deadlines and outcomes. We were told at several junctions the deal was not going to go through at all and consequently began looking to rent again. This sort of customer service is more the norm than the exception in Mexico, as many of you who have lived here know, but it’s a little more stressful when the stakes include a 120K dollar apartment and where you are going to live. We had to move downstairs to the “cave” apartment underneath our previously awesome place for a couple of months, but are now finally located in our new digs as of November. We are in the process of filling it with furniture and making a few structural changes (building this little closet has managed to become quite a challenge), but it should be ready to showcase it in a month or so. (Hopefully we’ll be filling it with a baby soon!)

Mexico City—Still crazy, exciting, smoggy, crowded and interesting. I’m learning a new area of the city surrounding my new apartment. Very happy to have found a new sports betting bar nearby where I could go and watch every NFL game on at once on Sundays. I also located a cool looking billiards place a few blocks away that I want to check out. Oh, and the prostitutes lining the streets around the corner of my new pad. (Won’t be checking that out anytime soon, especially since most have very large Adam’s apple’s.) I’m still playing Ultimate Frisbee and playing with an ad-hock acoustic band. Still getting out of town for long weekends to discover the endless supply of neat little Mexican colonial towns. Spanish classes conflicted with the book club meetings last semester, but it looks like that conflict has been resolved and I’ll be able to get back to doing some more of that. And yes, you may have heard that the drug war continues, with over 5,000 murdered nationally for the year—over 700 alone this past November. Luckily, 90% of the killings are between the police/soldiers and drug traffickers as they respond to the ongoing crackdown on narco-trafficking. Every day there are stories in the paper about shootouts, kidnappings, bombings, beheadings, etc. Pretty gruesome stuff for sure; but because so little of the violence actually takes place in DF, it’s comparable to you reading about the daily violence and mayhem in Iraq. It’s somewhat connected to you, but has no real impact on your day to day life.

Anyhow, that’s Miguelito in Mexico in a nutshell (I’d say taco shell, but a hard taco shell doesn’t exist here). The wedding blog is basically written and ready to send. I just want to get the pics together for you before I send it.

Peace and Love,

Miguelito

Photo: The adorable zocolo in Malinalco.

Remember, you can always read this blog and previous blogs in a nifty format, along with additional info and links to photos at: www.miguelitoinmexico.blogspot.com

New Year's in Acapulco

Ale and I spent Christmas ‘07 in New Jersey, Philly and Maryland. Though it was nice to see people and introduce her to some extended family, I must admit that I did not enjoy being there during this gray, cold season. You like winter? Fine, you keep it. As soon as we returned home to Mexico City, I put on my shorts and walked around outside just because I could. Then, I began preparing for Phase II of our vacation: New Year’s Eve in Acapulco!

Acapulco is one of the most famous and popular Mexican resorts, along with Puerta Vallarta, and Cancun. It is also one of the oldest, beginning its development in the 1930’s and growing ever since. Plainly put, Acapulco is as far from the pure, deserted beaches of Tulum as you can get. If Tulum is Island Beach State Park in New Jersey, Acapulco is Ocean City Maryland. The city is built around a shallow bay that begins with an opening through a small straight and then continues around until it almost forms a complete circle. Apart from this circular shape, much of the surrounding land rises quickly from the beaches into mountainous hills that look down on the bay. (This explains the famous cliff diving competitions here I used to see on ABC's Wild World of Sports.) Geographically speaking, it is an amazing natural location. It’s also a cool place to view at night from the surrounding hills, which are illuminated by the lights of the city. Unfortunately, it is the surrounding city that makes Acapulco's beaches unattractive. The entire stretch of beach around the main bay has been totally and completely developed. Besides being extremely crowded, the city and hotels have been dumping raw sewage into this bay for years, at the rate of something like eight hundred gallons PER SECOND. This may sound hard to believe, but I know this because I read an article in the paper saying the president of Mexico was taking a personal interest in seeing through the construction of several waste filtration plants that would address the immense sewage problems. The presence of so many people also causes the beaches to be quite littered with garbage. I remember as a kid in Ocean City when the giant sand cleaning machines would interrupt our beach play when they came by to clean the garbage off the beach at the end of each day. That’s what you call a smart use of tax revenues to help keep the tourists coming back. Yeah…they don’t have that here in Mexico. It’s one of those things that would make too much sense.

Consequently, less developed areas north and south of the Acapulco proper have become popular with vacationers, especially those from Mexico City which is only a few hours away. Luckily for me, Ale’s friend Sonia married a this guy Enrique who owns a nice condo in Punta Diamante, one of these newer beach towns about fifteen minutes south of Acapulco City. Ale and I visited it with friends from ASF not long after we met. The condo is located in a gated community; it is small and simple, but very nice, with a pool right off the back door. From the condo, a three minute car ride or ten minute walk through a hotel golf course will get you onto the beach, which is considerably less crowded and cleaner than those in down town Acapulco. Upon arriving, you are immediately assaulted by those working the various cabana areas on the beach competing for your business, where you can get a shaded area with chairs and a small table, and service for food and drink. After settling into your chosen spot, you can relax and enjoy the surf and sand. Granted, while there you will be asked to buy every kind of trinket imaginable by vendors traversing the beach, but a brief head shake will send them on their way. While trinkets are of little interest to me, during my first visit there I did take up the offer for a half an hour massage for less than ten dollars.

For our New Year’s trip, Ale and I arrived at three in the morning on the night bus. It is possible to drive to Acapulco in four hours or so, but if there is traffic in or out of the city, it can take 5-8 hours. The first time we went, I drove, and it took us and extra two hours just to get to the city limits and onto the highway. So this time, we opted for a relaxing ride on the bus. (It was on this bus ride that I began my first blog about our trip to the Yucatan.) The house is only a few blocks from the house, so Ale suggested we walk. So, walk we did, suitcases in tow, down the side of the highway in the middle of the night. About half way there, I began to feel a little like an easy target for potential bad actors, but we managed to survive. The next day we enjoyed the sun by the pool. As we were heading inside for dinner we struck up a conversation with a guy in the condo next door, an American who had married a smokin’ Mexican chick and was spending the vacation with her family. Later that night we met them at the “B Bar” right outside the condo complex, and proceeded to get well lit up. The next day, New Year’s Eve, Ale and I hit the beach, where met up with friends my ASF friend Matt and his Mexican boyfriend Fernando. We chilled out under the little thatched huts while we made New Year’s eve dinner plans via cell phone with Sonia and Enrique who were en route to meet us. Waiting to make reservations until the last minute left us with few options, especially since we were hoping for a classy restaurant on the mountain tops overlooking the Acapulco Bay. Luckily, a cancelation came through and we were able to snag a table at a really sweet place. It was a set menu with unlimited drinks for 200 bucks a person (or thereabouts), but we decided to go for it since it was a special night. Also I was assured the fireworks from this vantage point were not to be missed. I was not disappointed.

Did I say, “unlimited drinks?” Well, other than Sonia who was pregnant, the rest of us hit the bar running and ran all night, determined to get our money’s worth. We started with cocktails and beers before and during meal, which was a multi-coursed delight that lasted about an hour. About the time the meal ended, it was time for the declarations of “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!” and the fireworks that immediately followed. We began viewing them through the glass wall in the restaurant and then moved to the deck outside. I cannot emphasize enough how impressive they were. We were looking down from mountains on the south side, watching fireworks from what must have been fifteen or more full blown launch sites from around the bay. Any one of these, individually, would have been an impressive Fourth of July display. The entire sky over the city was bursting with colors in every direction. And it must have lasted fifteen minutes straight. It was truly worth the price of the admission and something I think everyone should see at least once. When the pyrotechnics ended, we headed back inside to boogie the night away. There was no dance floor per se, but we had a blast dancing in a variety of couple-combinations. It was at this point that we moved from lighter drinks to many shots of various flavors. At one point, Enrique and I got into a one-upsmanship battle with shots of Jack, which of course I won. I think he finally begged off at round five. (I knew my Jack drinking skills would come in handy one day!) Afterwards, Sonia, Enrique, Ale and I headed back to the condo where we found the neighbors from the night before still up and at it. So we joined them for some more partying and hit the sack just as the sun was coming up.

The next day we were blown out, as you can imagine, so we spent most of the day watching the first season of The Sopranos. (I had bought all six seasons on the street near my house for 500 pesos, or less than fifty dollars.) After recovering all day we had one more night out left in us. We up with Matt and Fernando again, as well as another friend Shawna from ASF and a friend of hers visiting from Canada. We met at Senor Frog’s, a Joe's Crab Shack type fun-and-food chain popular in Mexico. Shawna had laid relatively low since arriving in Acapulco and was hell bent for wildness. She got us all going by ordering four or five rounds of shots before she began dancing with the waiters and up on her chair. Afterwards, Enrique and Sonia went home early while the rest of us headed to a gay bar for some dancing. As is often the case with gay bars, it was a on the dark and seedy side. So dark in fact, that I did not initially notice when a naked man “dancing” on the bar, sporting only cowboy boots, a cock ring and giant boner, bent down to put his junk in my face and ask me if I wanted to touch it. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of the penis. Trust me. I’ve got one myself and I’m very found of touching it. But, no, I was not interested in touching the swollen dick of this stranger while I enjoyed my beverage. Still, Ale and I got a kick out of the novelty of this “dancing” on the bar before heading out to the dance floor. As usual, the music and energy of the gay club delivered, and we danced ourselves into a healthy sweat over the next hour or so. Shawna was interested in a bar with more “available” men, so she spilt early. Her friend, also gay, stuck around and was last seen in the corner of the bar, kissing the mustached motorcycle man from the Village People.

We chilled out on the partying for the rest of the week; eating, watching the Sopranos and hitting both the beach and pool again before heading home to the real world a couple of days later. Once again, it was another unforgettable vacation in Mexico!

Photo Note: Enrique (right) and Fernando busting some old school moves on New Year’s Eve.

Related photos of this blog can be viewed at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/

Spring Break in Puerto Escondido

Spring break was fast approaching. Where would we go? After all, we had almost two weeks off at ASF and we live in Mexico, the land of gringo vacations. We had taken that awesome trip to the Yucatan over Thanksgiving. And there was that crazy New Year's Eve in Acapulco. There had to be some cool trip to take for this upcoming vacation. But what? I had kicked some ideas around with Ale and Will, but nothing definitive had come together. Tick, tick, tick…

With about two weeks to go, Will and I sat on the couch discussing the situation. Someplace new (to us), someplace mellow, someplace warm, someplace ocean side, these were the requirements. Finally, we settled on the idea of Puerto Escondido, a little surf town on the southern Pacific coast of Mexico, in the state of Oaxaca. Ale had been there once before and confirmed that it was worth a visit. So we hopped on the computer and started searching Vacation Rentals By Owner Dot Com (vrbo.com). The first house that came up on our search was awesome: pool, three levels, barbecue, hammocks, rooftop patio, sleeps fourteen. Jeez, it was nice but we didn’t need anything that size or expense. So we moved on. Unfortunately, everything else we were looking at was already booked for Easter Week. As we went through the (un)availability of each rental in succession, our hearts were quickly dropping. Finally, there was only one rental left to check, the giant place we had looked at first. It was available, and after further investigation, would cost only $2000 for 10 days. Since there was going to be a group of us this worked out to be a fraction of the cost per person of a hotel room most anywhere, and certainly much less than renting a beach house of similar proportions at the Jersey Shore. Sweet!

Puerto Escondido was first known to outsiders for having a long stretch of beach, Playa Zicatella in which large waves break perfectly much of the time. The waves there break in huge empty circles, causing a tunnel or pipe-like effect in which surfers can literally surf through. Because of this it is called, “the Mexican Pipeline,” after the world famous “Pipeline” beach in Hawaii. Consequently, Playa Zicatella has become increasingly developed and the strip parallel to the beach resembles a boardwalk, replete with shops, restuarants, young people and crowded beaches. The main part of town surrounds the principal cove, or “Playa Principal.” It is cobblestoned, with a pedestrian only area, and is also full of shops, restaurants and bars. The bay is dotted with a variety of types of sailboats. Up the coast a bit, is a small, gorgeous, secluded cove, “Playa Carrizalilla,” surrounded on three sides by steep, rocky cliffs. In order to enjoy this natural spectacle, you need to walk down hundreds (thousands?) of steps. It’s a bit of work (especially going back up) but well worth it. Another primary beach is a stretch north of the town, Playa Bocacho, which is long, natural and practically deserted. It reminded me of Long Island State Park in New Jersey, consisting simply of surf, sand and dunes. One good thing about all of the beaches is that you can order food and drink from the little stands nearby. Many of our days were filled with ice cold beers and sautéed octopus, served right on the beach. (Ah, the life!) Overall, Puerto Escondido generally remains a sleepy Mexican jewel. However, there are signs everywhere that the increasing development will soon change the essence of Puerto Escondido forever. As Don Henley sings in the Last Reprise, “Call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye.” I advise you to get there before it becomes another Acapulco.

After we contacted the owners from VRBO, we shared the information about our Puerto house with our friends at work. Most folks more on the ball than us had already made their plans. Still, we ended up with a core crew of quality people: Walter, Tania, Tim, Sandy, Will, Ale and me. We got off to a rough start when there were some issues wiring the money to the owners in Puerto Escondido. Luckily, my buddy Nik was already there, after having visited me for a week in the DF, and he assisted with getting the house secured. After that was all straightened out, we had more unexpected trouble. Sandy had the misfortune of attempting to exit a bus while it was being robbed, resulting in her being sprawled out on the concrete with a broken arm. To her dismay and ours, she would not be able to make the trip. Still, we decided to carry on with the vacation in her name. Someone had to...

Will, Ale and I flew down together. Nothing beats the feeling of getting off of a plane and getting smacked in the face a wave of tropical sun and breeze. Even though the weather in Mexico City is a delight, it’s a 75 degree delight. Now it was time for some serious tropical heat. We rented a car and drove a few hours north up the scenic coast from Huatulco. The house was just as advertised: huge and colorful, with a pool and all the amenities, including boogie boards, snorkel gear and bicycles. It was located just blocks from the ocean in a suburban neighborhood north of Puerto Escondido proper. Many of the houses were fantastic retirement/vacation homes built by gringos. Each of these houses had its own original style and personality. Even thought the neighborhood is said to be 20 years old, there are still many vacant lots among the beautiful houses there. (For anyone looking to invest here, the time to buy is NOW!) After Tim, Walter and Tania joined us the next day, the first order of business was going shopping and filling the fridge and cabinets with food and drink. After that, well honestly, we didn’t do a whole lot of anything significant.

For the next ten days we had a totally awesome time. It was not the whirlwind of activity of our Thanksgiving vacation in the Yucatan. Mostly, we swam in the pool, played cards, hit the beaches, laid in the hammocks, read, ate, drank, and walked around the sleepy little town. In the pool, we played some Marco Polo type game Will taught us, conducted handstand-walking contests and chilled on the raft. Mike jogged in the mornings and Walter biked in the evenings. Tim took everyone’s money in Texas hold ‘em. Ale worked on her tan. Tania cooked some fantastic meals. At the local bars/discos, Will made out with questionable looking girls and Walter tried to dance with lesbians. (He almost got his assed kicked!) Mike turned 42 whether he liked it or not. Everyone read books and watched two full seasons of Arrested Development. (A must see series if you haven’t seen it.) It was a lazy, sunny, refreshing respite from the hustle and bustle of Mexico City.

One thing I kept thinking while I was there was, “I wish some of my family and friends back home could have been here too.” I’m sure everyone in the house was thinking the same thing. Hopefully, next time, we can make that happen.

Photo note: Will chillin' in the hammock on the roof of our Puerto Pad.

Reminder: You can read this amazing blog, as well as past blogs, in a snazzier format, and post and read comments at: miguelitoinmexico.blogspot.com. You can also view related pictures of this blog at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/show/