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.

Abuelitos in Mexico II

And next? A day off? A break? Oh, I don’t know—how about a thousand mile tour around Mexico in two days? (If you are a regular reader of this blog, then you’ll know that I am an idiot of sorts. But, let me just take the opportunity to say it directly: I am an idiot of sorts.) Yes, you heard me correctly. After a stressful day of travel that had the stewardesses calling “is there a doctor on the plane?!” for my fainting mother, after an arduous city walking tour followed by a day exploring castles, museums and a cathedral, I then took my aging, weary parents and my barely 3 month old son and wife on a two day, thousand mile tour around central Mexico in our Jeep Grand Cherokee. Yup, I did that.

It started with a trip up to the ruins of Teotihuacan, a set of pre-Aztec gargantuan pyramids. Unlike the El Greco exhibit, my father had specifically requested that we visit this most famous ancient site. So, I felt pretty good about this bit. But, this part of the tour did not come without its own glitches. First, I pulled into the first parking lot that I saw upon entering the park, which was near the visitor’s center and some shops, but over a mile from the main temples. So, the visit began with—you guessed it—more walking. Not that it was so bad; it was a beautiful day, not too hot, blue skies with fluffy white clouds playfully rolling by overhead. (Well, that’s how it all appeared when we started our journey into the park.) We finally arrived at the Temple of the Sun, which my dad and I climbed without too much difficulty. (Funny how being excited about a project will make you forget about your blister problem.) I could tell my parents were impressed and enjoying themselves. We took a break for Ale to feed Miguel and then headed over to the little shops to purchase some mementos. My mom even bought herself a pair of sandals she was very pleased with. It was all going so well. And then, suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, dark ominous clouds swallowed up the sky. And just like that, some mile or so from our car, the deluge began.

Getting rained on can be a drag no matter what. And getting rained on with your parents whom you are showing around is really not great. But, throw into the mix that you’ve also got a baby in a stroller in tow and then things get really crappy. Because of that, we had to take the long way around on the gravel path instead of a quicker more direct route that required us traversing several sets of steep steps. By the time we got back to the Jeep we were thoroughly and utterly soaked. (The one umbrella we thankfully had with us was used to protect the baby.) We ended up taking off our wet shirts and putting on the brand new t-shirts my folks had just bought as gifts for the family back home. “Oh,” she said, “I’ll just iron them when I get home and they won’t know the difference.” (Sorry to blow your cover, Mom.)

I drove around the park until I found a restaurant, and ran in for some food. Everyone else opted to stay in the car and attempt to reset their body temperatures. When I came out with some barbacoa tacos and mushroom quesadillas, I learned that there had apparently been a pow-wow in the car without me; and the consensus was that perhaps we should just call this a day and head home. You know, being soaked and tired and blisters re-aggravated and such. Maybe we should reconsider the long trip to San Miguel de Allende that evening. “Blasphemy!” I thought. If we go home now, we’ll have a hard time logging the thousand miles we so desperately need to make. Mexico City is great; it’s fantastic and amazing and splendid. But, now that you’ve seen some of it, you simply have to see some other parts of Mexico. So, despite the rain that continued to pour (it couldn’t possibly last much longer, the rainy season was supposed to be over for crying out loud) we headed onto the highway toward San Miguel via Queretaro.

And that’s when it happened. The REAL rainstorm began. Everything up to this point had been a relative drizzle. As night fell, so did the buckets upon buckets of violent water. The visibility was for shit. I mean, literally nil. Everyone in the car was surely thinking that this mad tour guide had finally gone too far. This would be the first and last tour of Mexico. It would all end here. And poor little Miguel strapped helplessly in the back seat would never live to see his first michelada. The lightening storm that ensued was literally the greatest I had ever seen in my entire life, an incredible etch-a-sketch of electricity in the sky. Long winding Jackson Pollock like displays that hung longer in the air than I had previously known was possible. It was breathtaking and beautiful. A truly natural fireworks display. Not that I was supposed to be watching any of this as I barreled along through the ever-growing lake sized puddles and the crowded, erratic traffic, both hands clenched to the steering wheel, torn between giving my parents the Mexico tour they surely deserved and the thin black line of tragic family car wreck. But, I couldn’t help but drive on and watch it all unfold.

I had already overruled the goup and committed us to getting to San Miguel de Allende, so press on I did, praying (cursing?) for the rain to stop. Trying to calmly breathe the air in the Jeep, so heavy with the doubts, fears and judgments of those I loved most. The silence was almost as defeaning as the rain beating upon the Jeep. Just as I thought we had reached some level of resignation, that things couldn’t get any worse--blink. On goes the interior light. Ok, whose door is open? Check. No one’s. Ugh. My father offered that maybe the water he’d been feeling leaking in under the dash was now affecting the electrical system. Suddenly, a quick painless car crash seemed the least of my worries. What we were looking at was an electrical failure that would leave us stranded on the side of the road in Mexico, in the dark, during the storm of the century.

Final installment to follow...

Abuelitos in Mexico!

My friend Pete, who is smarter than me, wrote me after my last blog to say, "Hey, this is good shit, but I wonder how many people manage to finish reading them when they are so long. Why not issue them in smaller installments." So, I'm going to try that this time. If I get more feedback from people saying this helped them read them and enjoy them, then I'll make it a new thing. If not, then Pete doesn't know shit. I wrote this blog while on a tour of Baja California Sur, a truly amazing place. Mexico is so diverse and incredible. Don't know if I'll squeeze in a blog about that trip, but I'll surely have pictures of it (as I already do of my parents visit) posted at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157622745419733/show/ Check 'em out!

My parents came to visit us last month. At the October/November Cusp. Day of the Dead/Halloween. All that. Not that this is why they came then. I needed to use the last three days of my “paternity” leave before November 1st. So, that’s when I told them to come on down. Of course, I’ve been telling them to “come on down” pretty much since I’ve been here. (You know, like for my wedding.) But, circumstances (read: global financial crisis and housing sales slump) and a longstanding provincial attitude about international travel kept them from responding to the invitations. Enter Miguel Alberto. The little guy had only been on the planet for a month and a half and he already had my parents buying plane tickets to Mexico. Well done, Son. I didn’t really care what had pushed them over the edge. I was simply ecstatic that my rents would finally be joining us in Mexico to get a first hand view of our lives. It’s weird that I care so much. At what age do you stop wanting your parents to be proud of you? I know I’m not an old man, but the signs indicate that I am getting “older”—the eyesight is failing, the libido is not as chipper as it once was, the recovery time after intense physical workouts is longer. (The recovery time after intense partying, however, seems to be lessening—this is probably a bad sign.) At any rate, at 43 years old I was totally stoked that Mike and Louanne would be visiting us and I counted the days down until their arrival.

Of course, looking back, it's clear that my enthusiasm got the better of me; I took them on a whirlwind tour that left my mother barely able to catch the flight home to NJ. Of course, she didn’t arrive in the best of shape either. My mother and some of her other siblings suffer from a rare condition that causes fainting at times. I can remember my uncle Patrick (the eighth of eight children, and thus only a year and a half older than me) sprinting away from the Fourth of July parades whenever the fire engines would approach, blaring their sirens. Apparently, for some reason, that would kick off his fainting spells. And I can also remember my aunt Margie being found passed out on the bathroom floor of my grandparents’ house when I was little. In recent years, my mother has developed additional physical quirks, like occasional migraines and something else that causes her to experience uncontrollable rapid heart beats. (I can’t remember the names for any of this stuff.) Not that any of it happens frequently as far as I understand it, just that it happens, sometimes. My mom is a sweet and fragile person, nothing terrible in that. So, when my parents confessed shortly after arriving in Mexico City on Tuesday night that my mom had passed out on the plane on the way to Mexico and given themselves, and everyone on the plane a good scare, it was not all that shocking of a surprise. But, I probably should have taken heed.

But, I didn’t. And the whirlwind tour commenced immediately after dropping their bags off at the apartment by walking them down the street to the Califa taco place. I’ve shared a lot with my family about the delights of Mexican food and wanted to introduce them right a way. This wasn’t the street tacos that I adore, but Califa is pretty tasty. So, we headed over there and had some tacos al pastor and some gringas shortly after they arrived at our apartment at 11pm. They seemed to enjoy them well enough before we went back home and finally put them to bed in Miguel’s yet occupied room at 1am after a long day of traveling. Oops, that was 3am their time. Sorry guys.

Still, the tour needed to continue (like the Milgram experiement), so the next day we got up and quickly started their personalized walking tour of my surrounding neighborhoods—Hipodromo, Condesa, Roma Norte, Juarez. We hit Buena Tierra for brunch, then Parque Espana and Parque Mexico, the Cibeles and Diana Fountains, Reforma, Little Korea. We did stop for a rest at Cafemania off of Parque Mexico. As we headed home after this long first day, I heard some mention of blisters emerging on their toes and “I haven’t walked this far in a long time.” Oops again. (Did I mention my parents are in their mid-sixties?) Sorry again guys. Well, not sorry enough to not schedule a dinner out at the Lebanese place we like so much with 12 of my closest friends. I really wanted my awesome friends to meet my awesome parents. Of course my folks were slightly subdued for the event, given the 3am bedtime the night before and the ten mile walking tour. Even so, we had a nice time, finishing off the evening by toking on the hooka. My friends got a glimpse of the two people responsible for making me me. Afterwards, I’m certain both my parents were asleep the moment their heads hit their pillows.

But, hey man, there is a lot to see in this great city of mine. So, the next day after breakfast we headed up to Chapultepec Castle, which I’d pointed out to them from my 9th floor apartment windows. After walking up the long steep hill that leads to the castle, we toured the residential portions of former emperors and presidents and headed into the museum portion for some more when my mom suddenly decided she needed some air. Too stuffy, she said. Gee, Mom, sorry about that. Ale went outside to sit with her. My dad and I hurried through the rest of the museum in order to catch up with the girls and Miguel outside.

Still, the day wasn’t over yet. Shoosh, it was only 3 o’clock or so. The show must go on and all that! We drove downtown, after a stop for some street quesadillas, to the Bellas Artes Palace to show them the El Greco exhibit that I’d heard so much about. Ale and I had been dying to see this and had waited specifically for my parents’ visit to finally go. When I heard my mom saying, “who exactly is El Greco again?” it dawned on me that Ale the art buff and me the history buff were perhaps not thinking straight when we set up this part of the itinerary. (Still, it was really cool, set up in the dark with highlight lights on the paintings. Better even than the normal showcase in Toledo, or so I’ve been told.) We left the museum and headed down toward the Zocalo, the huge central plaza of the city. (They assured me their feet were up for the mile walk or so through the old weathered buildings of El Centro.) After taking in the wonders of that mighty plaza, peeking inside the Catedral Metropolitana and taking a gander at the ruins of the original Aztec temples upon which the city is built, we headed over to the La Casa de las Sirenas restaurant and enjoyed some truly fine Mexican cuisine, garlic trout, chile enogada, and mole con pollo. It was on this satisfied note that we headed back to the apartment to put day two in the books. Way to hang in there you two!

Installment II to follow...

Working Vacation

At the second welcome party I attended during my first week in Mexico, a teacher described the life here as, “A working vacation.” Boy, did that have a nice ring to it. And man, he wasn’t kidding. I’m on year three here and I still feel like I’m on a working vacation. That’s not to say we don’t work hard at our school. Like most teachers, we work ridiculously hard, often ten hours a day and sometimes more on the weekends. However, when we are not working—then it’s pure vacation-like fun.

I realize I have already extolled the many wonders of Mexico City in previous blogs, but let me just say that after two years here, I continue to be fascinated, surprised and enchanted by all this city has to offer. Just recently, I went to have some happy hour drinks with my pals Ryan and Dean in a restaurant that has two lions in the courtyard. (They were in cages, not wandering freely among the tables.) And despite being in relatively small cages, they behaved in a way that made me think there were not entirely unhappy, playing like two cats. So, living in Mexico City continues to be an exhilarating experience, unique and exciting.

And then, there’s the rest of Mexico; so much to explore. The people I work with are constantly heading out to the beaches for surf fun, off hiking volcanoes, or white water rafting, or just visiting the scores of beautiful Mexican colonial towns. Every weekend someone is off somewhere. And like so much of what we do here, whether it’s watching football at Caliente’s—the gambling house with all the games on—playing Frisbee, followed by lunch on Saturdays, going to see our buddy Jason DJing at a local venue, meeting for Sunday morning barbacoa at Parque Espana, visiting a new show at a museum, the weekend excursions are often done in groups as well. A constant flow of new opportunities at each weekend or vacation: awesome people, great friends, traveling around together in Mexico on their ongoing working vacation.

One such weekend occurred not to long ago. We were invited to celebrate our friend Erin’s birthday by getting a house with a pool by Lake Tequesquitengo. And get this—jumping out of airplanes too! (With parachutes.) Unfortunately for Ale and I, my RSVP to Erin’s boyfriend Hector sat unsent in draft email form without me realizing it. Consequently, we were only able to get in on the deal for Friday night. Luckily, I had some paternity days I was able to cash in, so I took off Friday and we headed up before the rest of the group to have the house to ourselves for the day. The house was quite nice, with a large patio area with a pool adjoining a nicely landscaped yard over looking the lake.

We arrived in the early afternoon and after a quick shopping trip to the local tienda, we settled in to our weekend villa. While the maid made us lunch and drinks, we took Miguelito for his first swim in a pool. He was slightly freaked out at first but eventually got into it. He was naked, so I was slightly concerned about him squirting some of his mustardy yellow shit into the water. Thankfully, he maintained some self control. After our swim we sat in the yard reading and drinking some more until the sun began to go down and we were all ready for a nap.

After a few hours of blessed sleep—naps are not something I often get to enjoy much since the baby arrived—we got a call from the rest of the gang looking for some directions, as the place was a bit tough to locate. We got up and began our Friday party as people trickled in throughout the evening. One of the cool things about this weekend was that there were a lot of people there that I had never met. Erin has a knack for meeting random people and befriending them. So besides some of our core buds, there was a dose of new people, some meeting each other for the first time. There was a guy from Spain, a couple of guys from England, a computer dude from Oregon, a girl here doing her PhD work, all interesting and friendly folk. Miguelito came out for a while and was passed around among the girls. Soon, someone was cooking up some quesadillas with mushrooms and we laid into those. With a big day ahead for many of us who would be skydiving, people trickled off to bed one by one and two by two. Jordan and I, well into a bottle of Jack Daniels, were the last men standing in the wee hours of the morning, and bonded even further with a skinny dipping session before heading to bed. Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea. I went up on the balcony and threatened to jump into the pool. Since the “deep end” was only five feet deep, Jordan argued against it. I was still not dissuaded until he pointed out how stupid I would feel if I was unable to skydive the following day if I had broken my ankle the night before. For once, I erred on the side of caution.

Despite the significant drinking until 4am, I lept out of bed at 7:30 am eager to jump out of a plane at 13,000 feet. Driving to the jump location, we passed several groups of burros, some practically blocking traffic. When I commented on this, Tina—ever ready to argue with me—said definitively that they were mules. She explained that mules were half-breeds between horses and burros. I told her that I was aware of what constituted a mule, only the little shaggy spindly legged things on the side of the road were, in fact, burros. “Did you grow up on a farm, Mike?” she challenged. It was with great pleasure that I was able to say, with some truth, “Yes, Tina, I did.” (I didn’t point out that while we had a horse and a pony, chickens, geese and rabbits, we never hosted any burros.) The rest of the crew in the car burst into laughter. Tina’s bluff had been called! The great and frustrating thing about my arguments with Tina is that they are virtually never resolved. But, this time, she was stumped. (Though, I’m certain she’ll never admit it.)

When we arrived at the skydiving place, we got a good gringo laugh to discover they were not open yet, even though it was past the advertised opening hour. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the workers arrived and we began our training. There had been some nervous joking about using a Mexican company to skydive, being that attention to detail is often not the strong suit of Mexican business. But, this place was legit. Very professional, friendly and thorough. My tandem guy spoke perfect English, having studied in Miami for college. He talked about how much partying he had done there, and I thought perhaps that was why he was now a jump instructor. As we floated down to earth an hour later, I would come to find out how very wrong I was. His father owned the company and he’d been jumping since he was five years old. He was a nuclear physicist who had just finished his masters degree in Belgium and was heading back to Munich for his PhD. In a sad commentary on Mexican progress, he admitted he’d need to work in the U.S. or Europe after he graduates, since there is no nuclear energy program to speak of in Mexico.

The jump was fantastic. I’d skydived once before and it was so mind boggling and overwhelming that I remember landing on the ground and feeling like I had just woken up and didn’t properly savor the experience. This time, I was much more relaxed and really focused on enjoying both the freefall and the float down. Also, the first time was in a bigger plane in which you had to “jump” out. That part was hard. Your brain is telling you very clearly that jumping out of a plane when everything on the earth is just little dots is a stupid idea. This time, the plane was much smaller, and we worked our way out of the small door onto a metal leg jetting out to the plane. He stood on that with me strapped beneath him and he did the release into the great wide open without me having to make an act of volition.

After our jump, we headed back to the house and got into a serious pool party. The maid was busy making drinks and snacks while we all enjoyed the sun, the pool and the view. By mid-afternoon it dawned on me that we must have been at a significantly lower elevation that Mexico City because the temperature was significantly hotter. There were swim up tables where the pool and kitchen met, so staying cool in the pool while you had your drinks became the name of the game. Throughout the day, even more people showed up; at the height of the party there might have been 25 people there. More than once I said, and heard others say—drink in hand, floating in the pool, overlooking the lake—“this is some life we are living.” Later in the afternoon, the maid cranked up the grill and cooked up a slew of meats and vegetables we had purchased, along with some quesadillas. It was a fantastic feast that left us all quite stuffed.

As the evening wore on Ale and Miguelito and I snuck off to take another brief nap before getting ready to go out for Erin’s birthday dinner. The owner of the house actually owned the restaurant and the meals were included for those paying to stay at the house. (Some people were sleeping in tents in the yard—though we didn’t volunteer that information to the owner.) The meal was OK—nothing to write home about--but it was a good opportunity to further get to know some of the new people I had met during the weekend. I got to hear more about the PhD girl’s investigation into Mexican-Cuban relations during the Seventies and was jealous of her being a student.

After the cake came out and Erin blew out the candle, Ale and I packed Miguelito in the car to drive back to Mexico. Our room would be occupied by Dean and his girlfriend and her sister that night. (I keep forgetting to ask Dean how that went, as there was only a large, single bed in the room and two sisters to share it with!) Our friends Kristen and Jordan decided to join us for an early departure. 24 hours of straight partying had taken its toll, and there were extra people who could use their room. Waking up at home in their own beds, ready to watch football was a prospect well worth the two hour drive home at midnight.

All in all, it was another fantastic “working vacation” weekend. And the truth is, it’s just one example of the many great trips we take throughout the year. For some reason, it’s the sort of thing I would rarely do in NJ. But, here, hitting the road with friends for adventure is quite the norm. I heard later that those who stayed on Sunday continued the pool party, even jumping in groups from the balcony into the pool. The pictures I saw sure made it look like fun. I KNEW I should have jumped when I had the chance!

VIVA MEXICO!!

For those many gringo friends of mine who somehow still manage to think Cinco de Mayo, or the 5th of May, is the date of Mexican Independence, let me clue you that Mexican Independence Day is celebrated on the eve of September 15 and the following day, September 16th.

It all started 199 years ago in 1810. The world had witnessed the American Revolution transform British colonies into independent states, whose laws and institutions were firmly based in the ideas and values of the Enlightenment. The French soon followed with an attempted Enlightened Revolution of their own. Lacking the historical and cultural democratic experience of the Americans, the French Revolution spiraled into a bloodbath of beheadings and wars until a general named Napoleon assumed control, declared himself emperor, and effectively ended the first attempt at a true French republic. As Napoleon expanded his control and influence over much of continental Europe, he placed his brother Joseph on the throne of Spain. Consequently, Mexican authorities found themselves beholden to a crown they rightly rejected as illegitimate. Many upper class Spaniards migrated to Mexico, where they fomented anti-French and Mexican nationalist sentiments. One person caught up in this new movement was a creole (a Mexican of pure Spanish decent) priest who was both as popular with the mestizo (mixed race Mexicans) and natives as he was unpopular with the church (he was tried by the Inquisition) for his Enlightened ideals. He was working with other anti-French and Enlightenment influenced creoles on a plan for armed insurrection when the plot was prematurely discovered in the nearby town of Queretaro. Before the authorities could squash their plans, he quickly rang the bell of his church in Dolores, where he addressed his congregation in the town square (or zocalo) just before midnight.

No record of his apparently inspirational speech survives, but the reenactment of this call to arms (El Grito—“the shout or cry” in Spanish) is the centerpiece of the celebration that kicks-off Independence festivities every year in Mexico. Today's El Grito consists of some reconcrtucted version of the original cry being recited, followed by acknowledgement of the founders, "Viva Allende!" (crowd): "VIVA!" "Viva Morelos!" (crowd): "VIVA!" "Viva Hidalgo!" (crowd): "VIVA!" And it ends with,"Viva Mexico!" (crowd): VIVA! (repeated three times). These reenactments happen in zocalos big and small in cities and towns all over Mexico at 11 pm every September 15th. The reenactment of El Grito is followed by fireworks, dancing, singing and drinking into the night. This explains why the national day off from work for independence occurs on September 16th, not September 15!

Hidalgo and other early revolutionaries were summarily captured and executed, but the revolutionary genie could not be put back in the bottle and the war against the French illegitimacy raged on and was almost immediately turned into a war for complete independence from any foreign crown. Spain finally acknowledged the reality of an independent Mexico in 1821.

Ale and I celebrated our first Grito on our first weekend away together to Queretaro, and then to San Miguel de Allende, home of another early founding hero, Ignatio de Allende. On September 15, the quaint colonial square in San Miguel was awash in a festive atmosphere, filled with tourists, vendors of all sorts and Mariachis throughout the day. By evening it was completely packed with celebrants waiting for the mayor to appear and reenact the “Cry of Dolores.” After El Grito, when the fireworks went off on the huge towering carrousel built in the plaza, the people crammed underneath it began a mad dash in all directions away from the falling flames, burning gunpowder and choking smoke. This, of course, caused a ripple effect in the crowd which resulted in us almost being crushed. We were literally being lifted off our feet and moved feet at a time. It was quite scary for a moment, yet most around me were laughing. (If you are asking why authorities didn’t cordon off the area underneath the fireworks carousel, you obviously have not lived in Mexico.) It was exciting and crazy experience, and devolved into dancing and merriment in the streets; no harm no foul.

This year, a head cold had me feeling a bit under the weather so we invited some friends over for a few drinks and some “servicio a domicilio” or food delivery. My friends showed up, Ryan wearing a national futbol team jersey, and Tim sporting a giant Mexican mustache, sold along with Mexican Flags on the streets during this time of year. The mood was mellow, but enjoyable. We were hoping for sushi but discovered that us dopey gringos had waited too late on Independence Eve and had to settle for cheeseburgers and curly fries. THE Zocalo in El Centro here in Mexico City is ground zero for El Grito, where the president conducts the reenactment before tens of thousands in front of the National Palace and for millions on TV. It rained—hard—all evening, so those who stood there for hours were true patriots. By 11pm the rain had slowed enough for us to go up onto the roof of our apartment building and watch the fireworks from the Zocalo. The HUGE red, green and white bursts were impressive even from a few miles away in the rain. Simultaneously, there were visible displays from at least four other distinct launch sites, as well as various other wannabees launching the occasional missile from around the city. The sounds and sites of Mexican independence reigned down across the cityscape of 20+ million like the rain coming down from the heavens.

The next day we slept in (well I slept in, Ale was up early feeding the baby) and awoke to a beautiful sunny day in which the city appeared washed clean by the heavy rains. After I finish writing this blog, we are going to check out the Bellas Artes museum downtown where there is a visiting El Greco show. If that’s closed today, (the website makes no mention of being closed for the holiday) we’ll maybe head over to Chapultepec park, the giant forest filled with museums, a castle, lakes and an amusement park. It’s a great day to live in a great city, in a great country, in a wonderful world. Viva Mexico!

PS. If you’re still wondering what the hell Cinco de Mayo is all about, quite simply it is a celebration of the victory of a smaller Mexican Army over a much larger invading French Army at the battle of Puebla, on the plains outside the city of the same name that lie a few hours south east of the DF. The French, who had come ostensibly to force Mexican repayments of defaulted international loans, eventually ended up conquering Mexico and installing Austrian Prince Maximilian on the throne, until liberal forces, supported by the US, helped overthrow his French puppet government restoring Benito Juarez to the presidency. Still, the victory symbolizes Mexican pride and resistance to foreign influence and control. Why this day has become a significant holiday in the U.S. (it’s not big here) is likely because beer, chip and dip companies needed a spring holiday to push their products. May Day, the international socialist workers rights day, just doesn’t have the same festive ring to it.

Photo: President Felipe Calderone issuing El Grito in the Zocalo from the Palacio Nacional.

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!

Travel in the Time of Swine Flu

So, you’ve heard the reports, you’ve seen the pictures, you’ve pondered the horror—now, a first hand account from a survivor of Swine Flu at viral ground zero: Mexico City.

Of course, it came out of nowhere, as most global catastrophe’s do. It started on Thursday night, just as I was getting into bed. The gospel music on my phone which indicates a new text message began playing. Who could be texting me at 11:30 at night? It was from Tina, and it read: NO SCHOOL TOMORROW BECAUSE OF THE FLU. THIS IS NOT A JOKE. To which I immediately thought: THIS MUST BE SOME KIND OF JOKE! As tantalizing as an unexpected day off from work sounded, I wasn’t about to turn my 6 am alarm off. Then I got a second, very similar, text from Jacky. OK—something is up. But what, a conspiracy to make Miguelito miss work—or something much more sinister? I was too tired to figure it out, so I went to bed.

I still left the alarm on, but decided I would check the website first thing in the morning after it went off. And, low and behold, there was the announcement that school would be closed until further notice due to something called “swine flu.” After checking out more news on the internet it became clear that we were in deep pig shit. A new, virulent, contagious and deadly flu, a mixture of pig-bird-human viruses, was spreading throughout Mexico City like the spirit of death during the Passover in Egypt. A real Hot Zone/Outbreak moment had arrived and we were right in the middle of it.

Fortunately, we were already scheduled to get out of town that weekend for Ale’s brother’s wedding in Torreon, so we gladly jumped on a plane that afternoon and left the deadly virus behind. When we arrived in Torreon, there was (surprisingly) no screening from anyone at the airport but plenty of questions from our family. Already, reports had circulated indicating over fifty fatalities. Luckily for us, they weren’t scared enough to want to quarantine us, they took us home for dinner before dropping us at the hotel.

Now I know I’ve shared with you many times before the many fun and quirky things about living in Latin America. It’s what keeps things “interesting” and me on my toes. So, just a quickie: One of the reasons we booked the hotel was that it had a pool. Torreon lies in the state of Coahuila, in the desert of northern Mexico, which is “hot as hell”—to use a technical meteorological term—meaning “really fucking hot.” So, when I saw the alberca cerrada, “pool closed” sign on the pool door I grew concerned. Torreon is not what you would call a bastion of high culture, unless you consider highly air-conditioned large malls and fast food establishments “high culture.” This town is only about a hundred years old and lacks the colonial plaza and architecture that serves as the main attraction in so many Mexican cities and towns. Being able to sit by the pool, dipping, snoozing and reading was supposed to be a highlight of my weekend. “Hey, is this pool going to be working tomorrow?” I asked. “Umm….let me check…uh, yeah, it will be ready by 10am tomorrow.” But, of course, when I went down the next day to take a swim before I had to get ready for the wedding, I was informed that the pool would be available sometime Monday. They always tell you what you want to hear, rather than deal with a problem

The wedding was in a really cute chapel, and went as well as a Catholic Mass/wedding can go; which is to say I didn’t slit my wrist from listening to a gay guy in a glittery frock giving out wedding advice in a language I barely understand. Since we stayed late taking pictures, then went home to change, we (Ale, her sister and her son Dario, and a friend) finally arrived after all the tables were filled and the food served. So much for the idea of a family table. We managed to get them to set up another table and enjoyed some tasty Mexican staples, including tacos with various fillings and Mexican-style rice. Not exactly your gringo first-choice of wedding fare, but better than many a wedding buffet I’ve endured.

It was indeed “hot as hell” on this Saturday afternoon in Torreon, so I did my best to keep under the shade of the tents, avoided being sucked onto the dance floor for too long at a time and visited the two enormous industrial fan/misters frequently. Despite the heat and the setting—which was sort of a swim club recreation center—it turned into a pretty good party as the sun and the temperatures faded. And true to form, Ale’s parents and their merry group of party friends made sure it lasted to the very end—and beyond. They had brought several bottles of whiskey, vodka and tequila which they drank along with the beer being served by the wait staff. When that ran out I went on a beer run to keep them going. When that ran out, we left the wedding reception (the very last ones to go, I assure you) and headed over to one of their houses to play guitar and drink, eat and smoke some more. Honestly—I couldn’t keep up. After being served a triple sized shot of tequila (and finishing it, OF COURSE) I begged off and went back to the hotel, begrudgingly admitting defeat at the hands of my 6O+ year old in-laws and their bohemian fifty-something friends. Once there, Ale and I split a humongous Carl’s Jr burger and double sized michelada (spicey/Cubana style) we had delivered, before passing out.

It was at the wedding reception that I recieved word that all Mexican schools would be closed for another week and a half. Really!? Cases of the flu continued to rise and now it was showing up in the U.S. WTF was going on? I mean, so far it all seemed unreal and probably overblown, but now I was starting to wonder. Should we even return to the DF? Especially Ale, who was pregnant, and unable to take antibiotics. Hmmm. An obvious choice? Well, this should give you a pretty good idea of how boring Torreon is—when presented with the question of whether or not she should stay—she decided to take her chances in the DF. So, we donned our surgical masks and headed home.

By the time we arrived almost every person in the city was wearing a mask. Though, sadly, many people seemed unclear on how they were supposed to protect them from the virus. For example, some people wore the masks only over their mouth but left their nose exposed. Others wore the mask, only to take if off to be better understood when speaking to others. I saw some who wore the mask in their cars—while riding alone. They didn’t seem to get that the virus was spread in bits of saliva breathed, coughed or sneezed out into the air you breath or onto surfaces you might touch and put into your eyes or mouth. Clearly, not covering both your mouth and nose at all times in public was as good as not wearing the mask at all. And wearing a mask alone was protecting from only yourself, who either already had the flu or not. Duh!

Even though I still suffer from the knee-jerk reaction of immediately loving the idea of unexpected day off (snow day! in NJ), ultimately I am a slave-driving-content-obsessed teacher who wants my kids to learn as much stuff as possible. So, my concerns shifted to school, where I headed on Monday to gather some work and get myself organized for the week and a half off. There too was Will, Marlowe, and Ryan Davidson, who were doing the same. Just as we were getting ready to leave a loud and wailing siren kicked off--?????????. Oh, right, of course, an earthquake. Well, never a dull moment! Later that day I watched the American newscasters report about our day in Mexico City: deadly flu + earthquake. My mother must have been beside herself…

Though Ale was content to work from the safety of our apartment, I knew I’d go stir crazy under those conditions. I was already sick of wearing the annoying mask every time I went outside for fear of bringing the deadly virus home to my wife and unborn kid. When Jim Weathers suggested a trip north to Hidalgo to explore some towns and forests he’d heard about up there, I jumped at the chance to get out of town again.

We hit the road with Jim’s girlfriend Laura and his friend/surrogate Mexican mom, Terri. Heading due north up Insurgentes (the longest avenue in the city, and, some claim, in the world) to the state of Hidalgo which none of us knew much about. We had heard about some little towns with cabanas nearby in natural settings. After being unimpressed with Pachuca, the state capital, we headed into the mountains to discover some quiet colonial, former mining towns. The drive through this region was quite nice. At Mineral del Monte we took the Turibus around the town to the old mines and the graveyard. The graveyard was still reserved for only the Cornish miners who originally worked the mines in the region and their descendants. It really was a lovely little town, but most of it was closed due to the flu. After moving on to even smaller towns and hamlets we did come across some cabana places that looked OK, but we were having trouble finding places that were open. According to them, they had all been shut down by the government as part of the “flu contingency.” We found a couple that were willing to rent to us if we would agree to hide our car around back. OK—fine then, let’s negotiate. You’ve got no business and we don’t want to pay your inflated prices, so let’s talk. Nope. Not a chance. Jim and I moved on, shaking our heads at the apparent lack of business sense.

After driving deep into the forest we came upon a very isolated place that featured ATV rentals and a trout fishing pond next door. These simple, but new/clean, cabins sat on the side of a hill, overlooking a field with sheep. This was perfect—except they too had been told to shut down. Well, with darkness descending we pressed hard for an exception, but our failed negotiations at lowering the price were no longer an obstacle. 900 pesos for the night, as I recall, which was 225 pesos each (about 20 bucks) for a two room cabin in a pristine setting. Not cheap, but not bad.

So, we enjoyed ourselves on the balcony, made some fires, played the guitar and had some beers. We headed into the little colonial town we’d passed through the night before and found one place open for breakfast. Already we were seeing large government produced signs explaining the dangers of this swine flu or “flu porcina” and the many ways to avoid contracting it.

After breakfast we walked around town before moving on to the Chico national forest. Surely the forest is open enough to be open during the pig plague. Guess again. They wouldn’t even let us in the ranger station to get a map or info. So we followed the road straight through the other side of the park where we found another tiny, but extremely charming colonial town, Mineral del Chico. Once again, the flu emergency dominated the experience. Most places closed, barely anyone out and about, and those who were wearing masks and gloves, signs warning of infection everywhere. And this was in the middle of nowhere, we thought, what chaos must be unfolding back in Mexico City? We discussed potential scenarios upon our return that might reflect movies like 28 Days Later, Siolent Green, Escape From New York or Omega Man/I am Legend.

After a walking tour of the town, where we saw signs advertising zip lining and rappelling, we headed up the mountain to find another “campground” featuring cozy cabins. This place, perched on the side of the mountain and sporting an amazing view of the Mineral del Chico in the valley below, boasted hiking trails, communal outdoor grills, picnic tables and paint ball. Awesome! (We are definitely going back to this place with more friends during the next school year.) We got ourselves set up in the cabin and then headed back into town to try to find a restaurant. After all, we had not eaten since breakfast and it was getting late.

Good luck. There were only three restaurants we could locate in this little weekend-home village, and they were all closed. The more we drove around looking for something, the more desperate to find something we became. Just as we were about to settle for crackers from the convenience store, we passed a place that we had seen earlier with a sign saying, solo para llevar, or “take out only.” But, now there was no sign at all and not even a window for us to peer through. Was it even a restaurant? With nothing to lose from knocking on the door, we sent Laura and Terri to do just that. Lo and behold a man answered, first saying they were indeed a restaurant, but that they too were closed. But, they could see people eating inside, so they turned on the charm and sob story, managing to talk our way into this secret refuge of fine food. An underground restaurant! Terri and Laura went in the restaurant while Tim and I parked the car, only to be faced with a dilemma—lock the car and secure the computer and other belongings, or leave the windows down (and doors unlocked) and ensure Toby, Terri’s pug didn’t die from the heat. Tim, being the good friend he is, chose his computer and guitar, leaving Toby to fend for himself. Good luck, little buddy!

(This last for all of about five minutes before he leapt up from the table with a change of heart and rushed to Toby’s rescue.)

The chef/owner was somewhat disheveled, but friendly and warm, even going out into the garden to pick spinach for our salad. We had trout, the house dish plus chiles en nogada, the current special (and a MUST have Mexican dish if you visit). Both were fantastic and we stayed there until dusk, enjoying the view out the back of the restaurant into a lovely garden and the tequila the owner brought over to our table. As the Tequila flowed, so did the Espanglish and the laughter. We had gone from hungry and desperate for anything to the equivalent of a home cooked meal at a friend’s house. A feeling of rightness in the world came over me like…well, like a Tequila buzz, I suppose. We spent a second evening enjoying the smells and sounds of the Mexican outdoors while drinking and singing some more in the mountain air. Then we headed home the next morning. What we would find upon our arrival at ground zero was anyone’s guess.

After three days in the forest with Jimmy and crew I arrived back home to find a city that was noticeably dead. By order of the government, restaurants were shut down, along with futball matches, plays, concerts, museums and most anything else that involved more than ten people in one place. Hordes had fled to less infected parts of the country. The city was like the Morrissey song—Every Day is Like Sunday—since Sunday is the one day each week the city isn’t completely frantic. I could finish unpacking, Ale told me to get ready to go to San Miguel Allende to visit our friends Sonia and Enrique, and their magic baby Mila who never cries. She was tired of being cooped up. Fine with me, this place was becoming a creepy ghost town. Any minute now the flu zombies would begin staggering down the street looking to devour our flesh. Time to leave again…

So we loaded up the truck Will had left to us—his escape from the viral killer led him all the way to Budapest—and took the 3 hour or so ride out to San Miguel, in the state of Guanajuato. I had been there before when Ale and I went for our first ever weekend date during the Grito, the Mexican Independence celebration. It’s a pretty big deal there since the Mexican revolt against Spain began in Guanajuato, in a nearby town. San Miguel de Allende is named after an early leader of the independence movement, Ignacio Allende, who had some early success against the royal forces, but was later captured, executed by firing squad and beheaded. The town is also interesting because the art school there accepted GI scholarships after WWII, making it a haven for both ex-pat Americans and artists alike. Today it is as well preserved a Mexican colonial town as you can find, filled with boutiques, restaurants, bed and breakfasts, and lots of retired Americans, visiting or living there. I’d say it’s a must stop for anyone traveling through central Mexico.

Enrique and Sonia, who live near us in Mexico City, had rented an apartment in San Miguel while Enrique laid low after the company he was working for, Stanford Funds, turned out to be running an international Ponzi scheme that rivaled Bernie Madoff’s. He had worked there for years without a clue, taking orders, sending them off to the banks in the Caribbean, distributing dividends, etc. He had a nice office in one of the best buildings in the city. He had even broken a personal rule of his and invited his friends and family to invest in this amazingly “solid company.” And then, he found out his boss was a crook the same way everyone else did, by hearing about it on the news. Some of his co-workers had been “quarantined” as official witnesses, so he headed to San Miguel in order to avoid such an experience, since it likely meant being slapped around by the police in a motel until you paid enough for better treatment. Ah, Mexico!

As this town is a major tourist attraction, it was not “shut down” like the places I’d just been to in Hidalgo, but there were still plenty of surgical masks about, and restaurants were making you wash your hands before entering. We had several different dining experiences there. The first was at El Pollo Feliz, a chicken chain with a party attitude. You could order chicken, fries and tortillas (of course) along with a salad bar. The place is plastered with adverts featuring their “happy chicken” character in the role of famous movies or icons, like The Godfather or even popular commercials in Mexico. It was cheap and tasty and we went there twice. Ale and I also hit an Italian-Argentinean restaurant nestled in a beautiful outdoor garden setting on one of our walkabouts. The third place, Harry’s, was first rate, a New Orleans styled place downtown, expensive but excellent. During the meantime we enjoyed our days playing with Mila who was just starting to learn to crawl when she wasn’t sitting around cooing and smiling. I also spent a fair amount of time on the computer, conducting “remote learning” with my students online.

After our dinner at Harry’s, Enrique, who was going a bit stir crazy in this quaint, sleepy town, decided it was time to take me out to the pelodromo, or “hair circus”—an old school name for strip clubs. I pointed out to him that today, with all the designer shaving going on, it should be now called the pielodromo, or “skin circus”. Either way, he was bent for some action, and I wasn’t going to stand in his way, so we dropped the ladies off at the apartment and headed out on the prowl. (Yes, the wives knew what we were up to and let us have our fun—one of the benefits of marrying a Mexican woman.) Prowling, however, is all we ended up doing. There would be no howling as it were, being a Monday night in a provincial town during a flu epidemic. After driving around chasing the directions several people had given us and finding only darkened buildings on the edge of town, we realized it was not going to happen. We had a couple drinks at Berlin, a hole in the wall bar we found open in town and went home to drink for cheap. We tried to sell a wild night story to the girls but they were somehow on to us and laughed at us for coming up empty handed. Finally, I was pissed. I had been willing to suffer a number of inconveniences from this flu epidemic, but when it started to interfere with my strip clubbing—now things had gone too far!

The next evening, Ale and I packed up our belongings and headed back to the DF. I was scheduled to get back to work the next day, I wondered how many of my students would show up. Many had been shuttled out of the country to some U.S. relative’s or vacation spot. Surprisingly, attendance was nearly full and about 70% had completed their online assignments. We spent the next two weeks having our temperature checked and washing our hands upon entering the campus, but other than that things were pretty much back to normal. In the end, our ability to demonstrate that significant “remote learning” had taken place during the flu contingency exempted us from having to extend the school year for two more weeks as many of the Mexican public schools had to do. And THAT would have really pissed me off.

As it turned out, the monstrous flu porcina virus, initially thought to be exceptionally virulent and contagious, was mostly just another strain of flu in a world full of influenza. The deaths attributed to the swine flu were re-estimated to be lower than first thought. New cases steadily declined in Mexico, while they continued to increase in other countries. It seemed the prudent (some said drastic) measures taken by the government were appropriate and kept things from getting out of control, nipping it in the bud. Better safe than sorry, right? And besides, it gave Miguelito the opportunity to get out and explore more of Mexico, which is always a good thing.

You can read this, and other amazing blogs, in a snazzier format at miguelitoinmexico.blogspot.com. You can also view photos related to this blog at flickr.com/miguelito2066.