1/4 of July June 13, 2012Posted by alwaysjan in Travel.
Tags: 4th of July, American Expats, Crossing the Mexican Border, Holidays, Humor, Independence day, July 4, Life, Memorable 4th of July, Mexico, Moving to Mexico, Personal, San Miguel de Allende, Travel
A friend recently asked me about my family’s sojourn in Mexico. I told her I’d send a link to this post which I published in 2007. But, low and behold, it had vanished! As in “Gone Baby Gone.” Fortunately, in my early days of blogging, I printed out a copy of everything…just in case. So here it is again in all of its “Old Glory.”
When I was a kid growing up in Omaha, the days leading up the 4th of July included a pilgrimage just outside the city limits to buy fireworks. These were piddly-ass fireworks by today’s standards; sparklers, snakes, pinwheels, pop-bottle rockets, and the real show stopper – the Roman candle. My brother always managed to secure some M80s and cherry bombs. These served to remind us that it WAS possible to blow your hand off with one of these babies.
Neighborhood families would pool their fireworks and put on a show. My father arrived carrying a length of a tin downspout to these gatherings, which did double duty as a poor man’s rocket launcher.
As kids, we were only allowed to play with the snakes and sparklers on our own. We wrote our names in the air, immune to the bacon-grease snap, snap, snapping on our arms. On July 5th, the air smelled vaguely like gunpowder and the driveway had black spots where the snakes that grown, writhed, then turned to ash.
The 4th of July I’m thinking about today though was spent in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. We were desperately looking for Puente Numero Dos – Bridge Number Two, the only route, save wading crossing the Rio Grande, to get back into the U.S.
My family; husband Richard and sons, Taylor, 10, and Ian, 6, and I had moved to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico to escape the high cost of living in New York. We’d had a ridiculously fun time in Zihuataneo, Mexico a year before and Mexico and the ghost of Frido Kahlo beckoned. Never mind that we’d never actually set foot in San Miguel. Hey, I’d done the research.
“You mean you’re moving to NEW Mexico,” friends queried. “No, Mexico!” we replied rather enjoying the look of shock on their faces. We were ready for a change, and we were up for anything, short of moving to New Jersey. A sojourn in Mexico sounded exotic and the price was right.
San Miguel de Allende is a gorgeous colonial gem nestled in the mountains three hours north of Mexico City. It’s long been a mecca for artists and has an established colony of American expats, who are drawn by San Miguel’s beauty and cheap real estate.
I flew to San Miguel two weeks before the arrival of the troops. It was my job to secure the beachhead and lease a house. “Remember,” my husband implored. “Only rent a house that’s already furnished and has a telephone.”
Well, can you imagine what kind of house I rented? Three floors stacked like a stucco layer cake. No furniture and no phone. It was the garage that was the deal maker. Richard and the boys were flying to Omaha so my parents could give us their 4-cylinder Oldsmobile Firenza station wagon. We hadn’t had a car in 11 years so this was a BIG deal. We couldn’t park our new/old car on the street!
My family arrived. It was then I realized it wasn’t New York that made me feel stressed. It was my family. Not a good sign. The house I’d rented had recently been remodeled and all of the construction had stirred up the scorpions. Every time we took a shower, a scorpion climbed out of the drain. Just the anticipation of their appearance made the shower scene in “Psycho” seem G-rated. There were so many scorpions that I took to sleeping with a flashlight on and aimed at the ceiling. Just in case.
Four days after we’d moved in, the toilet on the second floor wouldn’t flush. We tied a dog leash to a bucket and lowered it into the cistern beneath the patio to get water while awaiting the eminent arrival of the “handyman.” We carried the bucket of water up two flights of stairs just so we could use the toilet. I was starting to feel like I lived in Africa – my life was starting to revolve around obtaining water. All I needed was a jar to transport it on my head.
I’d first been shown the house during siesta time, the only time of day it turned out that the aerobic studio across the street was not open. We were awakened at 6 a.m. each morning by a pulsating disco beat and a woman yelling, “Uno, dos, tres!” They knocked off for siesta then continued until 10 p.m. Disco was still alive in San Miguel.
The burro next door began braying at the crack of dawn. This was followed by ten minutes of silence and then the braying started in earnest. We joked that it was the Mexican snooze alarm. And the coyote tethered to the roof on the other side of us howled at night. We laid awake in bed. Less than three weeks into our sojourn, we’d lapsed into severe culture shock. For the first time I uttered the “L word” – leave.
There was one small problem. I’d signed a two-year lease and our landlord, Pat, had no intention of letting us wriggle out of it. Pat was a widow from Michigan who’d retired to Mexico. She’d married a local attorney, a certain Sr. Caballero. Pat bore more than a passing resemblance to Marjorie Mane’s “Ma Kettle” character. Finally, we told Pat we needed to talk about our situation. I’d paid first and last month’s rent plus a security/cleaning deposit, so I thought that just maybe, she’d let us off the hook.
Just in case she wanted to play hardball, I was the designated weeper. The trouble was, once I started crying, “I want to go home,” it was no longer an act. I really wanted to go home. Pat was unfazed. “You know what you need?” she said matter of factly. “You need to go to the corn roast over at the Presbyterian church and meet some nice folks.” She added that if we did try and break the lease, her husband, Sr. Caberro, would have our car impounded so we COULDN’T leave.
Panicking, I ran up to the U.S. Consulate to talk to Colonel Maher, an ex-CIA op, whom I’d met with once before. It was siesta time and the consulate was officially closed, but the shuttered windows to his office were open. I could see him sitting in the dark, feet up on his desk, and smoking a cigar. He looked like he was plotting to overthrow a mid-sized country.
I called to him and he came over to the window. I breathlessly explained our predicament. He listened attentively, chomping on the cigar before giving me his best legal advice. “I know Sr. Cabellero,” he said. “He’s well connected. So my advice to you is to disappear.” The shutters snapped shut.
Now when I’d leased the house, we’d also inherited a maid, Lara, from the previous tenants. Lara was incredibly kind and was paid so little I would have felt guilty not to keep her on. We’d never had a maid before and I felt so awkward about having someone clean up after me that I walked around and helped her clean. Lara told me the previous tenants, two American women, had left suddenly in the middle of the night after only two months. A pattern was beginning to emerge..
We frantically began packing up the car with Lara’s help. Pat lived just up the street and had a clear view of our house so there was an air of urgency. All of the furniture I’d bought at the mercado would go to Lara, and all of the housewares as well. To my mind it was not much, but I came to realize that to Lara, it was the world. We knew her husband had cancer and she was supporting an unknown number of children.
A relative of Lara’s arrived with a truck to cart off the furniture. Lara’s husband sat in the back of the truck, too weak to help. I wrote out a letter and in my broken Spanish bequeathed all of our personal items to Lara as regalos, or gifts. Lara cried with happiness. Her children would sleep in beds for the first time that night. We kept one small side table with a hand carved top, which we tied to the top of the car.
When Richard and the boys had arrived three weeks earlier, the car was packed to the gills. Now I had to squeeze in along with my luggage and a set of Mexican pottery that I couldn’t bear to leave behind. The car was essentially a low-rider heaving under the added weight. Richard took the hills out of town slowly. With every bump, we could hear the bottom of the car scrape against the cobblestoned street. We headed north. From time to time we looked in the rear view mirror, half expecting to see Sr. Caballero chasing us with a posse.
Richard was retracing the route he’s already driven to get to San Miguel, but for me this was uncharted terrain. I was trying to take in the surreal landscape that is northern Mexico. In the middle of nowhere, a person would appear alongside of the road. We passed people who sold dried rattlesnake skins for a living. They lived in “houses” with organ cactus as walls.
The first night we stopped at motel that had never seen better days. When the guy at the front desk asked for our address, we mumbled something about being in transition. “Hippies!” he ascertained. This was the early 90s and the mere mention of “hippies” made me feel like we’d fallen through a rip in some time continuum. But, Taylor set him straight. “We’re homeless!” he announced.
The plan was to cross the border into Laredo, Texas. On the south side of the Rio Grande lies the sprawling bastard child city that is Nuevo Laredo. It’s the equivilent to living on the wrong side of the tracks. Nuevo Laredo has been plagued by the kind of violence that accompanies drug trafficking. Wearing a badge is akin to wearing a target.
It was summer and the temperature hadn’t fallen below 100 for days. Even after the sun had finally set, there was no relief from the heat. When we finally saw the lights of Nuevo Laredo we cheered. In the distance, we could see the lights of Laredo, Texas – the promised land. All we had to do now was find Puente Numero Dos, or Bridge #2, and we’d be home free. It was then that steam from the radiator began billowing out from the hood. We cursed the universe. Then cursed it some more. We pulled over and waited for the temperature gauge to go down then drove another mile. We stopped and repeated the ritual. It was slow going.
The boys’ survival instincts had obviously kicked in because they’d stopped talking altogether. They knew the next thing to blow was going to be mom or dad. Finally, we saw the sign; Puente Numero Dos.
A huge American flag waved on the Texas side of the bridge. I’d never felt such a surge of patriotism. That’s my flag! I felt like the character Sally Field played in Not Without My Daughter after she’s recovered her kidnapped child and is running toward the American flag at the embassy.
Only 40 feet from the border, plumes of steam engulfed the car and we shut off the engine. I steered and Richard pushed. Slowly, we inched toward American soil. A U.S. Customs agent walked over to greet us. Never had English sounded so melodic. We stood there sweating and shell shocked. As the border agent checked our papers, we heard what sounded like a series of explosions. “What’s going on?” we asked. The border agent looked at us, incredulously. “It’s the Fourth of July!“ he said. We looked up to see the sky filled with fireworks. We didn’t care that they were red, white, and green.
We got the last room at La Quinta, only a stone’s throw from the bridge on the American side. Taylor walked into the room and promptly threw up. He then rinsed out his mouth (“Mom, can I drink the water now?”) and announced, “I’m hungry. Can we go somewhere and eat?” Richard took the boys to the Denny’s next door where they gorged on chicken-fried steak. Me, I laid on the bed in the air-conditioned room and turned on the TV. The sound of Ted Koppel’s voice was the sweetest lullaby I’d ever heard.
Celebrating the Devil’s Birthday October 29, 2009Posted by alwaysjan in Teaching.
Tags: Education, Halloween, Halloween Celebrations at School, Halloween in France, Halloween is the Devil's Birthday, Holidays, Humor, Teaching, The Devil's Birthday, Third Grade
It was just a matter of time. Sure enough, last week one of my students said, “My mom told me Halloween is the Devil’s birthday.” “Well, that can’t be,” I replied, “Because my birthday is in April.” A quizzical look. Sometimes, I just can’t help myself.
I try to be hopelessly PC. “Well, we all have different ideas and opinions. That’s what makes our world so interesting!” I say through clenched teeth. At my school, we arrange for alternative activities for children whose parents don’t want them to participate in the Halloween Parade.
Several years back, I had a family who had called their daughter’s first grade teacher to suggest prayers for her. They’d also called to make sure that the teacher wasn’t planning on coming to school dressed as a witch on Halloween. I’m not going to even go THERE. I don’t have to worry ’bout stuff like that since I keep my broom parked in the corner. I tell the kids that’s my transportation. Hey, can’t you tell I’m kidding?
When I taught a bilingual second grade class, my students had no idea how much Spanish I really knew. (The answer is not much.) But one day I was sweeping up a mess and noticed two girls watching me. I said, “Una bruja, si?” (A witch, yes?) The look on their faces was priceless.
My one complaint about Halloween is that if I see one more Scream mask, I’m really going to scream. Okay, make that two. In Los Angeles, it’s usually hotter than Hades on Halloween. Herding a bunch of squirmy kids around in their itchy polyester costumes IS a devil of a job.
My school has a parade, though only children dressed as storybook characters can win a prize. So, we have a lot of grim reapers who are just plain grim, since they can’t carry their scythes, and pirates without swords. When it comes time to change into their costumes for the parade, I’m in charge of the girls. There is always a plethora of princesses. When I taught fourth grade, I couldn’t help but notice that one of the “princesses” looked more like a Vegas show girl. It was only later we learned she was actually 14! Ay carumba!
My friend Cathy sent me a link to a great story from The New York Times on how the French are starting to warm up to the idea of “Alowine.” Notice how it has “wine” in it. It’s called Pumpkin Eaters, and it’s hilarious.
No Mo’ Snow January 3, 2009Posted by alwaysjan in Blogging.
Tags: Blogging, Holidays, Humor, Paperclay, Post Christmas, snow, Snowmen, Wordpress
It’s official. The last Snow Day on WordPress blogs is January 4th. My friend Elisse first told me about the “snow falling” feature, which I immediately activated. I grew up slogging through snow and having my car spin out on icy roads. I know all too well the smell of damp, sweaty wool.
Since I’ve acclimated to California, I rather enjoy wandering out to the curb to pick up the newspaper in my bare feet – in December. Or complain that it’s FREEZING, when the temperature has plummeted to a measly 46 degrees. No sooner do the words come out of my mouth, then both my husband (who’s from Idaho) and I both burst out laughing. What wimps we’ve become.
I’m sorry to see the snow go, as I liked having the power to control its direction using my cursor. And come Monday, I’ll have 20 third graders to keep under control, with less predictable results. Last night I fell asleep on the couch in front of a fire with the tree all lit up. We’d already decided to take it down today so this was akin to attending a wake (something I’ve never done) or sitting shiva (something else I’ve never done). In advance.
I’d taken some of the holiday decor down and was procrastinating about the rest. Then yesterday I tripped on a wire reindeer made from coat hangers and meant to hold Christmas cards. As I stumbled across the room with this bear trap with antlers latched to my foot, it all became clear. It was time. So Christmas 2008 is a wrap. No mo’ snow.
Falling Down the Rabbit Hole November 16, 2008Posted by alwaysjan in Holidays, Life, Teaching.
Tags: English Language Learners, Holidays, Humor, Life, No Child Left Behind, Teaching, Thanksgiving, Time Management
During the school year, those nearest and dearest to me know that I disappear down the rabbit hole. I have the best of intentions – but isn’t that what the Road to Hell is paved with? Between pushing all that paperwork around (without the benefit of a forklift) and being on-call to perform brain surgery daily (and according to NCLB, isn’t that what teachers are expected to do?), sometimes I’m hard pressed to know what day it is.
As a result, members of my family have abandoned all hope of receiving birthday cards. I don’t know how much a stamp costs anymore. My parents don’t count e-cards as real cards so I’ve been known to call them and have my entire class of third graders shout, “Happy Birthday!” And my parents, who are increasingly hard of hearing, have been known to hang up thinking it’s a prank call. Hey, I tried.
November is the worst month, what with the first report cards due and Parent/Teacher Conferences to schedule (and reschedule) and Thanksgiving. Every year I have my students write a paragraph about what they know about Thanksgiving. Some don’t get past the date. You have to understand that many of my students are not native born and Thanksgiving is an exotic concept when you’re from Korea, Pakistan or Bosnia. Most kids write a grocery list; turkey, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Last year one student wrote that Thanksgiving had something to do with Indians hunting buffalo wings.
But by Thanksgiving break, my students will be on a first name basis with Squanto and know that three women/girls did all that cooking for the first Thanksgiving, while the men played games. (No snide aside here as my husband does most of the cooking).
Next week my students will take home an adorable turkey made from a tie-dyed coffee filter. They’ll know what a “wattle” is and have written a paragraph about all of the things they’re grateful for that’s stapled to the back. And what about me? The day before Thanksgiving I have my last Parent/Teacher conference scheduled. As I drive home, I can finally start calculating how big a turkey I need to buy. Long lines and over-sized turkeys await. But I’m thankful that my students now know why THEY should be thankful.
December gets worser (Sorry, I slipped into 3rd grade mode when they’re still figuring out those slippery superlatives). As I read about winter festivals throughout the world, my students crank out adorable holiday crafts. Late at night, you’ll find me on-line ordering gifts to be delivered to my family in the Midwest. I do put some thought into this. Should I pay an extra $4 for a computer generated gift card? It’s a far cry from the day when I handmade gifts or at least bought them with my own two hands and packed them. At some point, the ritual of shuffling my gifts along with my feet in the line at UPS lost its allure. So while my students’ parents are oohing and ahhing (or so I’d like to think) as they unwrap those handmade treasures, my own family will have to settle for something that I personally added “to the basket.”
So don’t wait by your mailbox and expect anything from me. From September till the end of June, I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole.