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Observations from a hospital waiting room

Sorry for the dramatic title: nothing too serious to report. I was up at San Javier Hospital in Guadalajara to give blood, specifically platelets, for my friend undergoing chemo. Mexico is one of those places where if you need blood, you literally need to bring it with you by enlisting friends and family to come and give blood for you. Everyone knows how the system works, so everyone pitches in to help.

The rules for blood donation are as arbitrary in Mexico as anywhere. Back in the States, I and my entire family were prohibited from giving blood since we were stationed with the Army in Germany back in the 80’s: our beef supply back then came from the UK, which had a Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy (BSE, or Mad Cow disease, as you know it) outbreak. There is no test for BSE, so while there is next-to-no chance we have it, we were disqualified. Move to Mexico and voila, no problema. But they have rules for age (18-60), weight (>50 kilos), no meds, no alcohol (48 hours), fasting at least 5 but not more than 8 hours, last meal with no dairy or fat. Think about meeting those requirements during an emergency need for blood!

I passed all the preliminary screens, but then my blood needed a serum test, which delayed me for another 5 hours, so I got an extended stay in the hospital waiting area, which in turn led to this observation.

The Mexican people have a very different approach to the societal need to gather when one of the family gets sick. The waiting room was a veritable fiesta of several families. They each staked out a section, setting up a specific place for the family to gather, talk and visit while they queued up for trips up to visit their loved ones. There wasn’t any crying or even a long face: it was more like several impromptu family reunions had suddenly taken place like some hospital waiting room flash mob.

The families weren’t loud, but there were many hugs and kisses and murmurs of recognition. Some showed up with food, which they passed along to the rest of the family. Several members had visitor’s badges hanging around their necks, and they went up to visit the admitted relative, then returned to the waiting area and passed the badge along to another set of relatives. Sometimes the patient arrived in the waiting room via the elevator, and the family rushed to greet them.

Now remember, this wasn’t a maternity waiting room: this was a waiting area attached to an emergency room for a hospital specializing in cancer treatment. Some of the patients I saw looked quite sick. But the mood in that waiting room was positive. There seemed to be an emphasis on family and togetherness: gathering in the face of bad news, but not becoming disconsolate with grief even if the bad news turns worse.

I found there was much to learn from this unique approach to gathering when illness strikes the family. It reminded me, in a way, of the Irish wake: a real party in the face of tragedy. Of course, the Irish wait until the worst has happened, and party almost in the face of that end. The Mexicans may have improved on that idea!

The Why Question

A couple of my close friends are going through one of those quintessential “bad times” we all seem destined to experience eventually. Theirs includes cancer diagnoses (note the plural), which just complicate their lives immeasurably. And it leads other friends to question “why”as in “why is this happening to them?”

The why question is an obvious one under the circumstances, but it is the right question at the wrong time. Let me explain. At its heart, the why question is a search for an answer in order to assign blame. Its premise is that blame can be assigned: but why accept that premise? What makes a person think there is blame to assign? I know that some people trot out “the problem of evil” (an offshoot of the Why question) as a means to question the existence of God. If you are a believing Christian, there is nothing in your faith which would lead you to believe God is responsible for the bad things that happen. If you an atheist or agnostic, why should there be a reason? Sh*t happens, as the bumper sticker says.

Linking the fact that evil happens with the necessity of a cause is like misunderstanding irony: ironic humor requires a cause and effect, or else it is not ironic (an aside which permits me to post Alanis Morissette’s infamous song “Ironic”, which has either the most confused lyrics in the history of music <!>, or is meta-ironic, since a song about irony contains none. You be the judge.)

But I digress. The larger problem in my opinion is asking the Why question at the wrong time. Consider this allegory: Tax filing deadlines approach (public service announcement: they do!). You decide tomorrow is the day to complete your taxes. The night before, you order-in the spiciest Thai meal you can stand, open a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and stay up all night watching a “Die Hard” marathon on TNT. The next morning, as you gather your tax documentation, you wonder why it is so hard to understand tax instructions through a pounding headache and upset stomach.

Good question, bad timing. The why question is an important philosophical (and/or theological) question. The best time to ask it is not when you are hurting, physically or psychically, but when you are clear-headed and relaxed. Everyone must answer the why question eventually: refusing to consider it is just another way of answering it. So it is an important question. Like most important questions, it deserves careful attention, rational thought, and concentration.

Next time you’re sitting back on a beautiful day, after a good meal, with a fine Port (or Scotch, or your adult beverage of choice), consider it properly. Why…is there good in the world? Why have so many good things happened to me and those I know and love? In a world that is “red in tooth and claw,” (Tennyson), where evolution determines how the species progress and Nature does not care if it rains on your wedding day (sorry, Alanis), why is there any good at all?

Aye, that’s a good question!

The road to nowhere

We are just weeks away from departing for the Camino, so our training is waning as we try not to suffer any injuries from overdoing it. We were looking for one more simple challenge, something which would be different. We settled on our local road to nowhere.

Nearly everywhere we have lived, there has been a road to nowhere. Built by a local government for reasons known but to God, such roads seem to pop up in the middle of nowhere and run some indeterminate distance before ending just as suddenly. Sometimes they were predicated on a future development which did not occur. Others were custom built for some single benefactor. All seem strange and out of place. Just so with ours.

Our road to nowhere is visible from just about anywhere, lakeside. It snakes up the mountain range, being the only local road which does so. You can imagine how expensive it is to put in such a road, even if you save money by not putting in extras like guardrails(!).

Like most roads to nowhere, ours spawned several legends. One has it that the cartels paid for it, and planned to build a casino/resort on top of the mountain. Another holds it was part of a land swap deal with the local indigenous peoples (ejidos) who often own mountainside property. A third story was that it was a failed housing development spawned during the last housing boom. Quien sabé?

There are two houses, with amazing views, under construction

We just wanted a short walk which was steep, not cobblestone, and provided some nice views: three checks for us. And of course, it wouldn’t be a road to nowhere if it didn’t just STOP.

The road overlooks the Tobolandia water park (lower right) and the Walmart (upper left)

The Jacaranda are in bloom, so the town is purple.

Judy found the sidewalks amusing: care to go for a stroll?

Reclaiming territory

Not a post about Mexico’s intentions toward the western United States, but about the more mundane topic of reclaiming my dining room from mosquitoes.

Readers may recall that we have a terraza adjacent to our living room, which we intended to use–and outfitted as–our dining room. It counts as living space in Mexico, because it has a roof, even if it does not have walls (the concept known as outdoor living). I recall a comment on a local internet board mentioning the problem of mosquitoes, but I also recall responding “we haven’t seen any yet.”

As time passed and the rainy season commenced, los mosquitos arrived. They didn’t really bother me that much, since apparently I don’t taste good to them. Still, we live in the tropics, so any sudden urge to scratch an itch makes one wonder “does this one signal the start of (insert tropical disease here)?” Unfortunately, my dear wife is considered a delicacy in Mosquitoland, so very quickly our dining room (and our famous hanging couch) became terra incognita. “Here bee Dragons”- or at least mosquitoes.

Getting ready for another rainy season, we committed to reclaiming the terraza. We hired a local firm (ViLuMa) that does screens/doors/etc. to screen in our terraza, using a screen which should withstand my dog’s attempts to hurl himself outside at birds, or claw his was back in when we don’t respond quickly enough.

We had an estimate of $1,500 USD and two days of labor. The price held fast, but of course, it took seven days. The team did precise, quality work, so I am not complaining. Here are the before/after shots.

Here are the money shots:

Breakfast:

Siesta:

Going to the theatre

Another unique aspect of expat life lakeside is the availability of the fine arts. In addition to numerous musical performers, we have several playhouses, all providing quality entertainment in English. Among the most well-known locally is the Lakeside Little Theatre (LLT), which just completed season 53.

When we were just visiting the area, we managed to attend a performance, and once we settled here, we committed to getting season tickets, which run about $70 USD for six shows. While we were both working, we almost never went out for shows: too busy, too tired, and many of the hottest tickets were expensive, while the topical content was not our cup of tea. Ever notice how many storylines seem literally or metaphorically set on the Upper East Side of “the City” as they say in New York?

Since we are rested, retired and the tickets are cheap, we take that last complaint in stride and enjoy the live entertainment. This season the LLT put on Agnes of God and Fiddler on the Roof, among others. With about 12 showings per play, it is a major commitment by our friends and neighbors, and it is great fun watching them perform. We go opening night: I agonize watching the performances, as I can identify with the performers as performers, hoping everything goes well. The casts are, well, mature, as are most of the expats in the audience, although they occasionally find some younger performers for key roles. Some performers are retired professionals, some were artists back in college, some just got the theater-bug in retirement: all seem to take the craft very seriously.

The LLT is tucked away mountainside on a side street in San Antonio Tlacayapan, a little village between Ajijic and Chapala. They have a very fashionable lobby and a nice bar area for intermission; I would estimate the theater itself holds a little more than one hundred seats, so there are no bad ones. In addition to live plays, they also broadcast performances by National Theatre Live (we have not attended those, yet).

Growing up, I never would have imagined being a season ticket holder for a theater, but then again, I never imagined being an expat, either.

A powerful problem

Back in the day when I was institutionalized at the United States Military Academy, we took a heavy load of science, mathematics, and engineering courses, regardless of whatever we thought our major was. One of the more detested classes was Electrical Engineering, or “Juice”as we called it. Juice was a very simple course: learn a series of standard formulas relating to how electricity works and apply them to a series of problems. The challenge was that electricity is, frankly, perverse. We often use analogies to water (electricity “flows” for example), but these are really wrong, for electricity behaves in ways counter-intuitive to the water-in-pipes model, in that it flows both ways, or doesn’t flow at all, or pulses, or…well, you get it. Except that some cadets did not get it, which meant they never knew which formula to use in what situation, and they struggled. The Juice professors were also in on the gag: they always provided a set of meaningless data points so you could not tell which formula to use just by what data was in the problem.

What we all knew was that we would never need this information again. The only thing I can remember for sure from Juice was the phrase “Volts don’t kill; amps do.” This in fact is also a gross simplification, since the two are related, and both can do harm. Which I re-learned recently.

It hit 90 degrees a few days last week, and we decided to turn on our mini-split air conditioners. Regular readers will recall the sad tale of the installation, complete with extra holes and severed water lines, but that is all in the past. Now, we get to reap the benefits of cool, fresh air as we sit in our living room and watch the television. Except when I click the remote, nothing happens. Maybe old batteries? We have not used the air conditioner since it was installed in December (when we watched the installers turn it on); maybe the remote was not mated to the unit? Nope, I checked and both remotes worked with our bedroom a/c, but nada with the living room unit.

We got a hold of the folks who installed the units. They had me double check the breakers in our fuse box, which were all working. So they came out. They double checked all the connections but saw nothing amiss. They opened up the unit and showed me the computer chip circuit board, which was clearly “fried.” Bad news. This led to a quick trip back to our fuse box, where the installer showed me with his voltmeter that the power coming into my casa was running at 244 volts.

Now voltage varies whenever electricity is delivered, but it is supposed to be regulated so it varies within an acceptable range. In the States and down here, voltage should be around 110/120 or 220/240, depending on the type of power supply. At my house, it should be 220. So 244 is too high, especially since that was a one-time reading and the voltage may spike even higher. That is what happened to my new a/c: a spike cooked the chip circuit. It could affect any electronic device I have.

So now we have to notify CFE, the power authority, because the high voltage is coming in to at least my entire neighborhood, and it should not be . Meanwhile, we’re scrambling to find a whole-house voltage regulator to protect our appliances and electronics from spikes (or drops: such brown-outs can be just as damaging!) in the future. I recall reading about high and low voltage problems locally, but I had the (false) impression that our newer development had a community voltage regulator. No one seems to know if we do (still checking), but even if we do, it failed, so we’ll get one for ourselves regardless.

Back in the States, we had surge protectors for some of our personal electronics, but since the problem here is both too much or too little voltage, we’ll need to get regulators, especially to protect the fridge and TV. The entire episode was just a reminder that you can’t take anything for granted as an expat: if someone else has a problem with infrastructure, you likely do too…you just don’t know it yet!

Staying in touch

A friend recently mused about whether I was still in touch with the goings on in the States, and it reminded me how different things are today, communications-wise.

Back in 1983, I was assigned to a US Army unit in what was then called West Germany. We had access to German television stations and one or two British channels over-the-air. If you lived in Army housing, you had access to the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service, a unique cable system which provided a smattering of shows from any of the major US networks, minus the commercials. Some shows were a season or so “late.” Others were series which had never made it, so they were provided free to the military. News was the national edition of one network (NBC, as I remember it) recorded and shipped over, then shown a day late. AFRTS got their first satellite access in 1984, which meant we started receiving actual channels and news in real time, which was a major change. We got the morning shows late in the afternoon, due to the time differential: one of my strongest memories from those days was watching the Challenger disaster live as we sat down to dinner.

Phone service was provided by the BundesPost: think MaBell without the charm, and it was ridiculously expensive (as all long distance phone service was). Many times, you had to call an operator and schedule an overseas call; alternatively, family back home could call you collect, in effect notifying you they were at home and wanted to talk. You would deny the charges, then return the call to save them some money.

Mail took an extra week or so to arrive. The only papers available were the International Herald-Tribune, a weekly compilation run jointly (at that time) by the Washington Post and New York Times, or the daily Stars & Stripes.

And of course there was no Internet.

The net effect was to to be somewhat distanced from the news and the culture. I have always had trouble placing music from The Clash into any timeline, because right as they became famous back in the States, we were out of touch in Europe (which is an excellent excuse to embed one of their songs).

What’s different today? In place of the government-provided infrastructure described above, we have an organic, commercial one in Mexico. Because of the demands of primarily American and Canadian expats, we have access to several cable, streaming, and satellite TV services. I have Dish network, ostensibly in Cincinnati, Ohio, so I get some fifty channels, including all the major networks, local affiliates, PBS, CNN, Fox, HBO, Disney, ESPN, etc. For television news, I watch one major network (usually ABC), BBC America/International, and Special Report on Fox.

Using web applications, I listen every morning to WTOP, the DC-area news and traffic radio station, but now I get to smirk when the traffic or weather is bad. My favorite magazine subscriptions (The Economist, First Things) have gone digital, delivered to my tablet. Online I use GoogleNews to aggregate several feeds, and I use an incognito tab on my Chrome browser to read the Washington Post and New York Times every day. When I run into something behind a paywall or subscription-only, I use the Internet archive (tip: bookmark this site and use it; it works great) to get free access.

Mail delivery is even worse in Mexico, but is improving due to the introduction of Amazon here and its delivery system for packages.

We still have T-mobile cell phone service, with free calling to the States, and we can Skype/Google-chat when we want video. Whatsapp, an app which is used all over the world but not that often in the States, gives us free text messaging and asynchronous communications.

Not to mention, with the time I have as a retiree, I can pretty much choose how much news to consume, and when. One thing I haven’t mentioned: social media. Given our internet connectivity, social media is as ubiquitous here as in the States. However, if you get any of your news from social media, I suggest you reconsider. I can tell you the biases of all the media sources I use, but as the Russian troll operation demonstrated, the online world is far more complicated. With so many people trying to spin or distort what they call news, you are better off using social media for connecting with friends, not gathering information, wherever you are.

A Walter Mitty injury update

It was bright and sunny and I was day-dreaming…

Three seconds left in the game. USC had the ball at the Irish two-yard line; they were down by four, so this next play was the last one, for all the marbles.

I was the strong safety for the Irish defense. When the Trojans broke the huddle, I found the Tight End and followed him to the wide side of the field. As their Quarterback barked his signals, I read the alignment: if it was a pass, I had the End in man-to-man coverage; if a run, I was to force the action back toward the middle. The Trojan backfield was a two back set. Just before the snap, their right fullback went in motion left, to my side of the field, and I knew instantly it was “student body left,” a play they were famous for, a play which made Heisman-winners out of scoundrels like Simpson and Garrett and White.

The Tight End was cracking back on our right defensive end, confirming a run. As I dashed into the backfield, the fullback veered to my left to block the outside linebacker. It was now just me and the ball carrier: tackle him and win the game, miss and lose. As I set my feet and started moving forward, he leaned to his right, toward the shortest route to the end zone. I hesitated, and he pivoted on his right leg and started to sprint to his left, to the open grass, to the corner and the flag. I accelerated toward him: all I had to do was keep my head up, wrap him up, take his momentum wide and ride him out of bounds for the win.

Just as I was closing in on him, I felt the unmistakable crunch of contact as someone hit me from behind, low, in the back of the legs. Must be the wide receiver cracking back on me! Dammit! “What Happened?” I exclaimed.

My wife’s distressed voice answered, “I fell.” Wait a minute. No gridiron, no Touchdown Jesus, no soft green grass. Just my wife sprawled in the middle of a cobblestone street, having tripped just as we began day three of this week’s hiking.

(The culprit, left, now safely secured; the hook, right)

As Judy turned the corner at the entrance to our development, the loop of her right hiking shoe caught the hook on her left, effectively tying her feet together. She fell like a tree in a derecho, rolling into the back of my legs as she did. Despite having no military training, she executed a perfect three point landing fall. Unfortunately, the points she chose to land on were her knee, her wrist, and her face.

(Have you stopped beating your wife yet, Señor?)

I helped her up and we double-timed back to our casa for some first aid. To her credit, she insisted our returning to the hike, and she completed the entire 13 mile hike with pack, despite an assortment of bandages and ointments. Based on her performance, I am thinking of adopting the French Foreign Legion saying as our Camino motto: “March or Die!”

We have some rest coming, and we’ll make sure those loose shoestrings are secured next time.

Back to my daydream. Before I snapped to, I am sure I saw the ref throw the flag for clipping. This wasn’t the Coliseum, after all.

Three in a row, and a Toe

We are less than 50 days out from the Camino Frances. This means we are reviewing our packing lists trying to cut ounces wherever we can (do I really need deodorant?), doing some strategic thinking (how often do we stay in albergues, that is hostels, and when do we opt for hotels), and focusing our training on very specific challenges.

This is no time to exhaust oneself with a rash of extra training, perhaps causing an injury in the process. Last week, we practiced doing back-to-back hikes. The first was a 14 mile flat hike with full packs; the next day we did 7 miles, full packs, but up the nearest mountain. This week, we will string together three straight days, probably two long flat hikes sandwiched around a mountain climb.

No narrow switchbacks like this on the Camino

We had our first stress injury last week: Judy noticed a small blister when we came down off the mountain, and said her big toe felt tender. Later that night, it began to throb, and we feared she had bruised the toenail. If you are a runner or regular hiker, you know what is coming: she will probably lose the toenail. It is not as bad as it sounds, but still nobody likes to lose a toenail. Runners experience it all the time, I am told–in my three decades of running, I never lost one, but I did have my little toe smashed one time and lost half the nail. For hikers, it usually results from a long downhill trail, where your toes constantly slide forward in a loose shoe and bang the toe box, bruising the toe, then losing the nail. Judy thought she didn’t get her hiking shoes tied tightly, and our feet have not swelled yet, so our hiking shoes are a size bigger than our feet. Put it all together and you lose a toenail.

Otherwise, our training has been progressing well. We have not had a problem with hydration, pack weight, food, or bathroom breaks. All of these things have to be carefully monitored during the Camino. We did practice one other Camino pitfall: alcohol. After climbing down the mountain last week, we stopped at our favorite restaurant (Gosha’s) for lunch. They were advertising a margarita special: 45 pesos ($2.25 USD) each. Well, we were thirsty as well as hungry, so we ordered the special and downed a margarita. As we lingered over our meal, the waiter asked if we would like another? Now Judy has a one-drink limit, but “Of course”, I responded; Judy agreed with me (probably the effect of the hike and the first margarita). So we both had a second.

After we paid our bill, I got up and put my pack on. Judy, too stood up, wavered, then said “oh, I shouldn’t have had a second margarita.” Well, we walked the two miles home hand-in-hand, mostly to ensure Judy did not wander from the hiking trail into the adjacent roadway. It was an entertaining experience, and when we got home she had a great siesta and awoke none the worse for the experience. Lunch with beer or wine is often a staple on the Camino; I will certainly indulge (professional drinker, closed course, don’t try this at home), but I bet Judy won’t…unless we see a margarita special!

Chili today, hot tamale

Sorry for the pun title, here’s a little jazz to make up for it.

One of the oddities of living in a place with such a wide variety of cultures is how they mesh. Annually for the past 40 years, Ajijic has hosted a charity fundraiser called the “Mexican National Chili Cook-off.” The event looks exactly like any of the hundreds of similar Chili contests NOB, but with a Mexican flavor.

This is the unofficial start of the charity fundraising season down here, with several different types of events aimed at the large population of temporary expats known as snowbirds.

The Chili cook off ran Friday through Sunday, with contests for Margaritas, Salsa, and of course Chili. They had a large stage with a steady stream of performers: we were there Saturday at noon for some local Mariachis. In addition to the contest tastings, there were booths for drinks, hot dogs, pizza, hamburgers, and tacos. For some reason we always end up getting in line for the taco booth; I guess I have already eaten all the hot dogs I ever should.

There were several raffle drawings each day, and a large collection of tents where local tradespeople or organizations could pitch their wares. We bought a rug and some knives, but I still couldn’t find just the right hat.

Some store owners had exotic pets on display: we saw an owl, an exotic bird, and a snake. There were roving bagpipers and Caballeros on dancing caballos. And it all seemed to fit together. Anyway, a good time was had by all, whether you ate Chili or not.