One thing that strikes tourists and expats alike is just how friendly the Mexican people are. That friendliness stretches from the mundane to the extreme. People greet each other throughout the day, with a “buen dia/tarde/noche” as appropriate. This may be becoming a rarity in the largest cities, where urban dwellers adopt the instinctive distrust of strangers the world over, but in small and mid-size towns, you talk to strangers. This is superficial, it’s true, but it evinces a culture’s approach to others.
Absolutely nothing to do with friendliness, but we had globos overhead yesterday!
Many visitors of all types have stories of a car breaking down somewhere in Mexico and the resulting group effort to fix the flat or find the part, which involves lives disrupted, friends marshaled, cousins called in, food shared, and eventual success with the absolute refusal to accept any payment for services rendered, time spent, or disruption caused.
Just a few weeks ago, we were looking for a specific grocery store in a giant plaza in Guadalajara, following the well-placed signs in the parking lot, which led us to the bottom of a parking garage and . . . no grocery store. But we did see the ubiquitous “car -washers,” Mexican men with rags and buckets that cheerfully offer to wash your vehicle while you’re shopping. We flagged them down and asked for directions, which they rattled off far faster than we could comprehend. We thanked them, then started to drive off, when we realized the man giving us directions had begun to sprint up the garage ramp, where he stopped and waved us on. We followed as he deftly dodged between lanes and pointed us around corners until we were in sight of the grocery, then he doubled back before we could even give him a final “gracias!”
Friendliness does have its downside. Despite that last paragraph, one generally does not ask locals for directions. Why? Because they are too friendly to say they don’t know where something is, so they give you directions to something like what you want, or to somewhere where other people are. In a similar vein, most Mexicans hate to say “no” as it feels impolite, so they often mean “no” but say “yes.” So you may ask if they can make something, they tell you yes, but then never get around to completing the deal, because they don’t really make such a thing. On the flip side, if you’re in a restaurant here, and happen to order something they’re out of, or that’s not on the menu, your waiter might still say yes. If you watch carefully, you will see someone from the cook staff sneaking out to the store down the street to buy the ingredients!
Most often, the friendliness of the Mexican people is abundant. Expat friends of ours tell us that they visit our local club, which sometimes hosts huge weddings for Tapatios (from Guadalajara). Many times our friends get invited to join in the fiesta. Not wedding crashing, mind you, just hanging out nearby, and of course, you must fiesta!
Mexico’s legendary friendliness is not just based on anecdotal evidence, although there is plenty of that. Internations, a global expat community, conducts an annual survey among expats, and Mexico perennially ranks first for the ease of making friends with locals and friendliness in general. And by friendliness, I don’t mean that false–almost obsequious–friendliness one encounters at an all-inclusive resort. There, employees are coached to bend over backwards for any request, and to do so with a smile. Out in real Mexico, the friendliness is more akin to treating others as you would like to be treated, and welcoming a visitor like family. It is not as if there isn’t the occasional rude waiter or smiling con artist, but that such people stand out most for not being common.
College football is back, which has fans everywhere saying hello to another season. So why am I saying goodbye?
If you watch any football game this year, you might notice something different about the uniforms: college teams have a patch celebrating 150 years of college football, while the NFL sports patches memorializing 100 years of the professional sport.
That’s not a typo: the amateur game preceded the pro one. In fact, college football was the second most popular sport in America in the 1920s (behind the national pastime, baseball, and just barely above boxing). Pro football at the time was a novelty, a sport with young men who should be working full time but instead continued to play football while holding down odd jobs. Pro football didn’t become the popular juggernaut it is today until well into the 1960s: the first four Super Bowls weren’t even officially called that!
The college game’s popularity transcended its elite beginnings as a sport mainly played by the well-known Eastern universities. How? Partly because even if the vast majority of people did not go to college, every family was proud of some relative who did, and adopted a university as a result. Additionally, colleges presented the sport as a manly ideal, where otherwise regular students demonstrated their masculine qualities on the “field of strife.” This was appealing because it presented the students as selfless teammates contrasted with the mercenary professional players. Finally, the sport prospered on regional and ethnic rivalries, so anybody could join in by taking sides and rooting for the (good) local squad and against the (evil) hated rival.
To maintain the distinction between the professional and amateur versions of the game (and to protect the latter’s popularity) the colleges developed rules for eligibility. The players had to be students, but could not have tuition paid by the school: the very idea of an athletic scholarship was forbidden as a contradiction in terms. Rather, schools were allowed to arrange work-study and other reimbursement programs to pay for the athlete’s tuition. However, players caught moonlighting for local professional/semi-professional teams could be disqualified, as it muddied the distinction between the sports.
Predictably, this approach led to elaborate cheating scandals: everything from make-work “jobs” at the university to state schools putting the entire team on the state payroll for essentially no work. This led the colleges to flip the paradigm, prohibiting any outside payment, but permitting the concept of athletic scholarships and promoting the notion of student-athletes. Once on scholarship, “student-athletes” quickly learned how to avoid taking classes, which led to more rules on minimum GPAs, semester loads, and graduation criteria.
There was always some level of rules-avoidance (nay, cheating), but the system held together in the main. College football remained a very unique and distinct sports phenomenon. But then a ton of money got involved. Where did the money come from? Ticket sales (80,000 fans x $200 tickets x 7 home games = $56 million a year), television rights, and merchandising. Once upon a time, the colleges regulated how many games were televised and how often teams were on “national” television, with an eye to preventing an unfair advantage in publicity. With the advent of 24 hour programming, ESPN and other networks made offers the schools couldn’t refuse, sending hundreds of millions of dollars to the institutions and making virtually every game available to fans on television.
Where did all the money go? College football became big business. Very big business. How big? The highest paid state employee in 31 states is the head football coach at one of the state universities (in eight more it’s the basketball coach!). Athletic departments expanded staff, facilities and amenities in a continuing competition to have the best. Currently, the reigning NCAA Champion Clemson Tigers have the best football-only facility (cost: $55 million dollars), which includes multiple pools, a nap room, mini-golf, and video games for the players.
Overall football scholarships actually declined from 105 (1973) down to 85 today due to the necessities of Title IX compliance, but rosters remained around 125 players: enough players to fill out 6 complete squads. The players went from seasonal performers to a year-round regimen: summer school to keep eligible along with unofficial summer work-outs (sometimes supervised by coaches), specialty clinics and expert training, then Fall camps, the regular season, finally post-season bowls and play-offs, then Spring football and more class work before starting the cycle again.
Funny if it wasn’t so sad!
The players got tuition, and eventually a stipend, and some freebies, but no pay; they were instead given the opportunity for a quality education. But just the opportunity. Given the demanding athletic schedule I outlined, serious academics were a luxury. Some schools shepherded student athletes into “gut” programs which kept them eligible but didn’t result in an education or a useful degree. Every school could trot out a star player who was also an Eagle Scout with a 4.0 GPA in Electrical Engineering: with 125 football players, you’re likely to have at least one. Meanwhile, many other players were only graduating in name, and others proved to be illiterate despite their degrees!
Meanwhile, the universities were reaping huge payouts . . . sort of. While some of the math (like the ticket example above) is pretty simple, there is no universal standard for reporting revenues and costs. Schools build ever-larger stadiums and keep the costs off the athletic department books or add in classrooms as a cover. Private schools can remain mostly mum. Even state schools can do things like reporting every athlete as “costing” a full scholarship at full tuition (sometimes out of state) when in fact, they “cost” nothing. Other schools move most of the athletic department into a privately-held association, avoiding both financial scrutiny and skirting the transparency requirements of any state “sunshine laws.” Large, successful programs make a lot of money, while smaller and less successful ones play along and hope for a windfall season.
Nicolae Ceausecu Memorial Stadium in South Bend . . . see the classrooms? Lotsa classrooms!
The players have taken the NCAA and the universities to court for the right to make money off the merchandise bearing their name and likeness or to just be compensated as employees. The results are mixed, but the cases and appeals are heading in the direction of allowing pay and benefits. The NCAA has preemptively increased direct stipends and allowable benefits in an attempt to avoid the inevitable. But the path forward is clear: since the academic institutions have treated college football (oh, and basketball, too) as a business, eventually the courts will insist student-athletes get their share.
So what? Back in the day, players walked off the field and got “golden handshakes” when wealthy alumni shook hands and palmed a fifty or a hundred over to star players. But the advent of a full pay-for-play era will tear up the existing system. It is a change in type, not in extent.
First off, some schools have ruled out paying players. My Notre Dame, Northwestern, Stanford, Duke, Wake Forest, Vanderbilt, the Service Academies, Boston College and the “Big 10″conference so hold, so they say they will not compete in an association (the NCAA) which does. In the era of paying players, small schools who don’t make much money may want to pay, but will probably have to drop out of the arms race (remember, their costs just went up). But this won’t stop the biggest schools and football factories: they will revel in the newfound freedom to emphasize the sports. What they don’t understand is the amateur nature of college football–even if it is a charade at times–is essential to its log term success.
The current useful fiction retains the patina of “student-athlete” from the past, so there are rules (even if fudged). Once the student athletes are employee-athletes, the university can’t make arbitrary rules about school attendance a condition of their football (work) performance. As one athlete already noted,
He did graduate, after all.
For the pay-as-you-go teams, they won’t immediately drop all pretense of student-athletes. They will probably start with limits on how much athletes get paid. But the amounts of money involved are large, and therefor largely corrupting. And if it’s a business, business rules (e.g., labor rights, antitrust laws) apply. Eventually, they must allow for the possibility of non-student athletes, but perhaps limit the numbers. Schools will avoid some limits by having teams associated with the university (The Gators associated with the University of Florida?). How will they limit how much a school can offer a high school recruit? How about an overall salary cap? Players will be free agents, changing teams/schools for better pay or more playing time: you can see the beginnings of that in today’s transfer portal.
College football will still be popular, and it will still make money. It will avoid the fake-student scandals of the past, although it will doubtlessly invoke new ones (look at college basketball, which skips the pretense of student athletes but must deal with many other problematic behaviors). Instead, college football will be what some already charge it is: simply a minor league for the NFL, only one with some odd attachment to places called “institutions of higher learning.” That will be a loss for the fans, the students, and the sport.
As Joe Walsh crooned in the same song, “I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do . . . “
Friends have admonished me for the negativity of my recent posts; I plead guilty. I was–after all–an intelligence analyst for almost forty years, and when I spoke publicly about it, I almost always used this joke: “An intelligence analyst is the type of person who—when he smells flowers–looks for a casket.”
But life IS good, even if “sometimes I still do (complain, that is).” What’s so good about it?
The weather has returned to its normal spectacular. The climate is so good here we get spoiled, and a few hot/sunny or cloudy/rainy days become a national tragedy. It’s cool (60s) in the morning, gets sunny and warm (80s) in the afternoon, then cools quickly in the early evening. Passing storms appear and disappear in the late afternoon-through evening-to early morning. Mostly they present spectacular lightning displays over the lake.
We have a special word for this: it’s called Thursday.
Close-up of leaf cutter ant
I seem to have won my war with leaf cutter ants. For those unfamiliar, leaf cutters are the plant world’s version of the creature from the Alien-series of movies: a relentless killing machine that turns beautiful tropical foliage into a bunch of naked sticks-n-stems overnight. They had so denuded my jasmine plant thrice before I caught on. Like Ripley, I nuked them from orbit (“it’s the only way to be sure“) using a product called Trompa which they take back home to the evil queen and die, already!
Like Aliens, they’ll be back, but for now I can smell the jasmin!
If you put your nose up to the screen, you’ll smell it, I swear!
College football season begins this weekend, and all teams not named the Miami Hurricanes are still undefeated. Canes fans can take solace in the fact that they assaulted the band director of the Florida Gators: keep it classy, UM! Anyway, certain defeat lurks somewhere in the distance, but for a brief moment all fans can dream bigger dreams. I don’t know how many more college football seasons there will be (topic for a future post), so enjoy it while you can.
We’ve started to explore more of Guadalajara. Any town with five “a’s” in eleven letters deserves to be investigated. Many expats avoid it: too big (mas que cinco millones), too many cars, too Mexican (what?!?). We have been attending Mass up there, and then checking out new restaurants, shopping, etc., and it has been a very positive experience. We hit City Market last Sunday, which is sort of a Whole Foods on steroids. We sat at the lunch counter and ordered tapas and coffee. Since the coffee was served from the cafe, our waiter went over there to get it and bring it to us, along with some complementary chocolate croissants. Then we went grocery shopping on a full stomach–highly recommended over the alternative.
Judy & I are in great health: eating better and exercising more than ever before. We still eat out almost every day, and there are always new restaurants to try, even in our little town. We hit two more news ones (a creperie and a Tex-Mex one) recently. Judy got me to adopt walking laps in the pool. I always resisted this as something only ‘rehabbers’ and people “exercising without sweating” did. One more thing to be wrong about. It is very solid exercise and you leave feeling refreshed; who knew? We’ve even kept up “playing” tennis, which is to say we spend sixty-to-ninety minutes each Friday trying to volley the ball over the net. No score, no rules, just racket-and-ball-and-go! Good fun, better exercise (since we never know where the ball will go). Judy now has tennis outfits, so she looks marvelous, too! I got tennis shoes. I had tennis shoes my entire adolescence and never played tennis. Now these two parts of the my story have aligned.
Our Spanish language lessons continue, and while some topics are very frustrating (how about the seven different verbs they use to convey the verb “to become”?), we can now hold a conversation with locals, as long as they verbally downshift to second gear. We had a young waiter in Guad last week who spoke supersonic español: I think he was trolling us! Yet it is nice to be capable of basic interaction, even with our limited vocabulary and gringo accents.
We got hit with something called DAC, which is the Spanish-language acronym for overuse of electricity, resulting in a triple rate charge. I guess it was the air conditioner use back in May/June; while it irritated me to no end (I have solar panels!), the triple charge resulted in a monthly bill of (wait for it) about $75 USD. I doubt I ever had an electric bill that low in the States. So even the bad news has a silver lining.
So, yes, I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do . . . just with a sly grin.
Continuing a theme, here is a real-time update on the quality and cost of medical care for expats in Mexico.
During Judy’s recent annual physical, she realized it was time for that occasional right-of-passage for those of us of a certain age: a colonoscopy. She has had one before, back in the States, and it was as unpleasant as the procedure can be, or at least as the prep can be.
For those unfamiliar (lucky you), the prep involves 24 hours of only clear liquids the day before, ending in several hours of large volumes of water and a choice of prescription laxatives, designed to…ahem…clear the intestines so the doctors can get a clear view. The procedure itself is done under a mild sedation so oftentimes, you don’t remember it at all.
First, Judy and I visited the doctor we were referred to by our regular physician. Note I said”we,” as the doctors here have encouraged us to attend visits as a couple. It seemed odd at first, but we welcome it, as two people can compare notes on what was said. The doctor was very friendly, completely fluent in English, and made sure he had a good patient history during the visit. He talked over some options for location (here at a new hospital in San Antonio Tlayacapan, or up in Guadalajara), gave us a cost sheet (and reminded us NOT to pay more, as this was the cost he negotiated with the hospitals), and explained the schedule and prep. Total cost for this visit: $800 MXP, a little over $40 USD.
The cost of the prep materials at the local farmácia: $487 MXP, or $25 USD. At least the powder had no flavor, but drinking 4 liters in four hours is no fun . . . and the aftermath is torrential!
The hospital–in our small community– is brand-new and squeaky-clean. The day of the procedure, we arrived at 9:30 for our 10:00 appointment. The front office staff–excellent English–processed Judy’s paperwork and gave me the wifi password for the waiting room. Judy left for prep at 9:50 and came back out at 11:10. No issues, no complications, todo bueno. We were on our way to breakfast at 11:30. One interesting difference: in Mexico, you keep your own medical records, so Judy left with a portfolio including photos and other results from her colonoscopy.
She reported that her specialist, doctor Daniel Briseño Garcia, visited with her during prep to answer any questions and see how she was doing. She recalls the anesthesiologist was very familiar with her medical history and had a great sense of humor (all in English). She also remembers some of the support staff speaking Spanish, but that was as she drifted off.
Cost for the doctor and anesthesiologist: $ 6500 MXP, about $350 USD.
Cost for the hospital: $ 4800 MXP, or about $ 260 USD.
Total cost ran under $700 USD. Since our insurance covers us anywhere in the world (most do NOT), our cost will be zero. It’s been awhile since I had one in the States, so I googled costs and it varies between $1,000-3,000 USD, although most forms of insurance cover it there too as an important preventive procedure.
Like anywhere, you get what you pay for (we could have found a cheaper alternative), and you go with the doctors you trust. Overall, a very positive experience.
I saw an article in the New York Times yesterday that was interesting for several reasons. You can read it here. For those unwilling to click through, or who have used up their “five free articles” for the month, here’s the gist of the story. An American woman needing a knee replacement went to Cancun for the procedure, and the entire trip and all medical costs were less expensive than just the procedure stateside.
As far as that goes, it’s just another medical tourism story. But there are a few twists. First, the surgeon was a US doctor who was also flown down to Cancun just for this surgery. He was accompanied by a Mexican doctor and staff, including a bilingual nurse who helped translate the doctor’s instructions. Why did the doctor do it, on his day off? He was paid triple the US Medicare rate for his work, including expenses.
Second, the woman and her husband are middle class folks from Mississippi, and her care came under her husband’s coverage through his employer, Ashley Furniture of Wisconsin. So this isn’t some ridiculously rich patient, nor a gold-plated health plan. Yet the health insurance provider paid all the expenses for the patient and her husband to stay at a resort attached to the hospital for the day before the surgery and ten days after. Oh, and she got a $5,000 bonus for agreeing to participate in the program. How? The total cost for everything was less than 40% that of doing the same procedure in the States. So Ashley furniture has saved millions in the last three years by offering this option to its employees.
Third, the care team consciously exceeded the health and care standards of US hospitals, using extra sterilization equipment and accelerating the physical therapy regimen. Why? the entire program is managed by a US firm called North American Specialty Hospital or NASH, who makes all the arrangements for the travel (even passports), connects the doctors and patients, and even provides malpractice insurance for the American doctor in case of complications. NASH insists on exceeding US standards to mitigate patient concerns; it’s the same reason they arrange for a US doctor. NASH is a for-profit business that gets a flat rate from the insurers for its work.
Last, why a private, upscale Mexican hospital? The cost per night is only $300 USD, and the care staff was excellent. As the patient related in closing, she would gladly come back and pay, as she was treated “like family.”
What we have here is a wining situation. Average couple gets high quality medical care: win. Company saves millions of dollars on said care: win. Upstart firm makes money ingeniously by putting consumers and providers together in an innovative way: win. Mexico gets credit for the quality of its care: win. Even the American doctor made out well.
Granted, this is not the solution to America’s health care challenges, if only because some people won’t accept it just because it is different. But it does show how there are ways out of the health care mess which don’t destroy the system as it exists. We need more innovative thought–and less sloganeering–on health care.
We’re attending my annual college reunion (the BrewDogs), hosted this year in the Wisconsin Dells. Our trip got off to a sputtering start courtesy of AeroMexico airlines and an unannounced, last minute flight change.
We had reserved a non-stop flight from Guadalajara to Chicago O’ Hare, a four hour trip arriving just after midnight. We were going to clear customs & immigration and stay at the airport Hilton, which is adjacent to the terminal. Three days before the flight, I checked our seat assignments and noticed most of the plane was empty. Judy asked me “they wouldn’t cancel the flight, would they?” “No,” I opined, “they probably have connections to make, and this flight does not show a history of being cancelled.” Just by chance (or the intervention of the Holy Spirit), Judy checked the next day, and informed me we now had a morning flight, twelve hours earlier!
No e-mail, no notice of change on the Delta App (their partner). A Delta rep on the phone tried to tell me they sent both of us e-mails on June 30th (neither of us received such an e-mail), and oh-by-the-way, why did the App still show the original flight on July 29th? What can you do?
We were able to make the necessary changes to take the earlier flight, and make lemonade out of the lemons by staying the day at the airport Hilton, enjoying the gym and the pool and turning a hectic travel day into something more pacific.
Panoramic view of ORD from the top floor of the Hilton
While we enjoyed ourselves, the costs were shocking. Now I know we’re talking airport prices, but $77 USD for a shrimp Caesar salad, a bolognese pasta bowl, and two glasses of house wine? Not to mention service with an attitude. The waiter approached, stood facing away from our table, and asked “what can I get you?” We weren’t sure he was even talking to us!
But that’s travel now, especially in overcrowded US airports. The better portion was spending time with old friends (a term I mean literally these days) in the picturesque Wisconsin Dells, catching up on life and just enjoying each other’s company. Yes, there was too much bacon and too much custard (a Wisconsin specialty), too much wine and too much beer, too much loud music and too much raucous laughter. How else would a gathering of BrewDogs be?
Catching up means hearing of bad news as well as good. There were stories of friends and family passing, illnesses discovered and jobs lost, all the things that inevitably confront us as the years and decades pile up. And the stories were related in the frank manner only possible among good friends, who have shared hardship in the past, and can quickly revert to a level of intimacy only reserved for those you trust absolutely.
As the tally of empty beer bottles mounted, conversation veered to the deep end of the pool, and more than one time we confronted the same question: “what the h#&*! is going on out there?” Liberal & conservative, politically active and un-involved, all agreed that there is something fundamentally wrong in the country. We didn’t come to any brilliant conclusions; there simply wasn’t enough to beer to reach that level of performance!
Yet we noted that while the world we grew up in was fundamentally flawed in many ways, it was collectively far superior to today’s environment. Furthermore, those past failings hadn’t been resolved or even traded for new ones: many were still in place, adding to our woes.
Was it the inevitable finale of the age of Aquarius, since doing you own thing usually ends in destructive individualism? Was it unfettered commercialism, turning citizens into consumers and changing all human relationships into a contractual zero-sum game? Did we get too tired and cynical to believe in self-sacrifice and the common good? Or were we led on by politicians, manipulated into warring camps more interested in power and might than in duty and right.
We have to face it: America has always been a violent, individualistic place. But once upon a time, other peoples looked on that as something a touch quaint, a little odd, perhaps even useful. We seem to have passed from character to caricature. Maybe I’m just ruminating in a virtually empty O’Hare airport at midnight, waiting for a flight home. But my college friends come from all over the country, from backgrounds as different as can be. We all seem to be ruminating alone at midnight.
***SATIRE. This post is intended as SATIRE. If you don’t understand SATIRE, look it up in the urban dictionary (more SATIRE).***
I wanted to report back to all my amigos on my recent visit to El Norte (NOB, chant with me, “U-S-A, YEW-ESS-AY, YEEWWW-ESSSS-AAAAY…”). Putting the bottom line up front, it’s not safe up there, and I do recommend you postpone any travel there until it calms down, which could be several decades.
First off, while we were in Cincinnati, there were all these terrible storms that dumped rain all day, every day…what’s with that? The Ohio river started to climb its banks, but did that deter the locals from parking along the river? Not at all! And the TV weathermen kept interrupting the local broadcast to tell us it was a “Code Red” day and unsafe to breathe outdoors. Now I don’t know about you, but where I live, the air indoors comes from outdoors, so what am I supposed to do?
Plenty of room in row “U”
We survived that leg of the trip, but then we went to … South Bend, Indiana. Apparently the mayor of South Bend is running for Presidente de los Estados Unidos (does the Presidente of Chapala ever run for Presidente de los Estados Unidos Méxicanos?). Anyway, the Mayor is not at home, and the policía shot down an African American man (this happens a lot, apparently) and there were protests and shouting and generally bad behavior (not like a Chivas-Atlas match, but pretty close).
The night before we left South Bend, I was sitting in my hotel room, when my phone started buzzing, then my computer started alerting, then the TV weathermen interrupted the game, then the hotel management called my room to tell me to take shelter in the hallway because there was a tornado warning! Now I am a South Bend homeboy, so I know that you don’t hide in a bathtub/basement/crawlspace until you hear the train (el tornado) coming. So I was like “Guey, que pedo?” and waited for the weathermen to give up and get back to the game. Back in the day, we found out about the tornadoes when we read about them the next morning in the newspaper… “Cool, we didn’t die!”
So we decided to head to Baltimore to visit our nietos, and we had to drive a bunch of cuotas. They were really expensive, but we had this thing called EZPass (translates as easy-pass, but inglés, what the heck!) and so we should have been able to drive through the casetas without even slowing down. Except the Man was watching, and he didn’ want no permanentes driving through, so we had to stop at each toll-booth and hand our “EZPass” to the attendant, who ‘read’ it an handed it back and sent us on our way. What is “E-Z” about that?
We thought we would be safe near the ‘nation’s capital’ but there were four homicides and many more shootings in the DC-Baltimore area while we visited. I think the gringos need to practice more, because there seem to be many more wounded than killed. Back in Mexico, we get reports of someone killed with thirty-seven bullet wounds; in the States, there is “one person killed and thirty-six wounded.” Very poor gun control, indeed.
We were driving around, doing the American thing (driving around) in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, and there was all this traffic! And people were hurryin’ … we know, because they were beeping at my driving, because I was only going fifteen miles OVER the speed limit pulling into the shopping center at 2:00 pm on a Thursday, and what the f*$^&* was I thinking, goin’ so slow? Am I right?
One day, we went for a hike in a Maryland state park, and when we came back to our rental car, the back window was shot out with a BB-gun. We had “Massachusetts” plates, so maybe someone mistook us for a rival cartel. But who sells drugs in a state park? Eh, no problema, the rental car company gave us a Jaguar SUV to drive around in … but we were too scared to take it anywhere, ‘cuz we would get car-jacked.
See that little hole to the left?
This is what the rest of the window looked like
Everything goes so fast in El Norte! People move fast, talk fast, and no one better stand in their way. When we went hiking, we greeted people on the trail with “Good Morning!” and they looked at us like we were shouting “ehhhhhhh, puto!” Eventually they smiled, responded, and walked on, but they kept looking back at us as we walked away! Maybe it’s our accents?
Seems friendly enough!
We’ve been layin’ low, watching for la migra and the policía en general. I don’t know why we are watching for them, as we are legal visitors, but the news is full of stories about them, violent crime, random attacks, and general lawlessness. El Presidente Trump keeps talking about keeping out all the rapists and murderers, and it seems like they got plenty already, so maybe he’s right.
Here is my official travel warning: wait until the 2020 election to visit NOB. The people who aren’t high on oxycontin are wavin’ guns all around, and both groups seem to drive while drinkin’. Politics is an excuse for the very worst behavior…Americans haven’t learned to distrust all politicians like Mexicans do, so they start believing them, and then no end of trouble ensues. If you HAVE to travel, learn some basic phrases in English like “please don’t shoot me” “U-S-A, U-S-A” and “F$^*@ Trump” or”Make America Great Again” (be sure NOT to use the latter two unless you know which political cartel’s territory you are in!).
Above all, try to fit in: Drive very fast, talk very fast, only use plastic money, don’t greet strangers or make eye-contact. Americans are actually very friendly. When in doubt, compliment Americans on the size and cleanliness of their handguns; it never fails to break the ice.
Anyone who has traveled and spent more than a few days in a foreign culture can confirm that one of the things that does not translate easily is humor. Our experiences as expats in Mexico only confirm this suspicion, although I think there are positive lessons to be learned from other cultures when it comes to humor.
Comedy NOB has become–as so much else–heavily politicized. You can laugh at the outrageous behavior on one side, but there are *crickets* on the other side. Meanwhile, a growing list of things once considered humorous are now off-limits: officially (and sometimes criminally) liable, offensive, and unforgivable.
Not so much in Mexico. Mexican humor is generally much sharper, politically incorrect, and fatalistic. There are a few topics which are off-limits to Mexican humor: national symbols (the flag, the anthem), some historical figures (La Guadalupana, Los Niños Heroes), and always, always, ¡SIEMPRE! anybody’s mother. There us nothing in Mexico equivalent to “the dozens” up north. Most everything else is available for ridicule.
Start with nickknames, or apodos. I am not talking about those which come with your given name, like men named Jesús being called Chuy, but rather the ones given you by your friends or family, and often due to a physical characteristic. So you might call your friend gordo because he is/was fat (or maybe very thin), chapo (shorty), tartajas (stutterer). Yes, the characteristics can be somewhat crude by NOB standards, but are not meant or taken that way in Mexico. Knowing someone’s nickname and using it is a sign of inclusion and affection, even though the names might not always sound that nice.
Joking about sex is becoming more common, if only among the younger and less cultured. However many Mexicans enjoy the double-entendre, or albures. These word-plays can be subtle or blatant, and may involve food. Be careful if you are ever asked how you like your eggs (huevos) or chiles. If your answer elicits smiles, you might be the accidental victim of an albur.
Death or tragedy is definitely on-sides for humor. Our Spanish teacher told us about a young Mexican entrepreneur who launched a video game about saving those trapped Chilean miners…while they were still trapped! As he explained, it wasn’t because they were Chilean…he would have done the same if they were Mexican! If you follow this reddit link, you’ll see a video of a float in a Mexican parade. The float is for the local search and rescue team, who stand (on the float) in a simulated demolished building. Watch closely, and you’ll see a bloody arm waving from under the rubble! This is, after all, the culture that brought the world calaveras, (literally skulls), short poems predicting the amusing, ironic, or poetically just way someone (at times rich or famous) will die.
Calaverita about a suegra (mother-in-law); do you really need it translated?
And of course, there is the famous story of the Mexican fans chanting “ehhhh, puto” at the World Cup. This vulgar chant (I wont give you a translation, just take my word for it) is very common in the Liga México, but FIFA threatened and then fined Mexico because its fans would not stop chanting it during every goal-kick. Despite pleas from the team and the government, the chant only grew louder, and continued. Eventually, FIFA gave up.
Clearly the whole crowd…
and the Mexican commercial which followed, when FIFA gave up trying!
Most Mexicans insist that while the word has several–all vulgar–meanings, the chant is in jest, and therefore permitted. Look at any YouTube video, and you’ll see this in play, which illustrates the Mexican view: it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. Said with a smile, even a slur becomes nothing more than joke between friends.
This is a universal principle. Even in English, we understand the difference tone, non-verbal cues, and context make. If a man greets a woman-friend with a simple “That’s a nice dress!” it would probably be taken as just a compliment. Change the response to “That’s a NICE dress!” with an eye-roll on NICE and you have a coded insult. Change it to “That’s a nice dreeeeeesssss!” with a leer on the last word and you have a harassment case. “That’s a nice dress?” with a verbal uptick on the end and you have an implied difference of opinion on the very concept. The words remain the same, the message varies greatly.
Mexico applies this same concept to humor. NOB, certain terms have become so politically incorrect that they are forever banned. Perhaps this reduces the frequency and hurt of offensive statements, perhaps not. It certainly makes people more wary. I will bet somebody reading the last paragraph thought “why should a man even be commenting on a woman’s dress?” Point made!
The need for humor to grease human interactions is eternal; words come and go. “Gay” was a slur before it became the title of Pride Marches. Irishmen calling each other “shanty” or “lace-curtain” was the beginning of many a fatal brawl, once upon a time. And don’t even begin to delve into the never-ending debate on the rules concerning use of the “N-word” within, and outside, the African-American community. Even the word “gringo” which simply derives from the concept of someone you can’t understand, falls into this category.
Words can hurt, no doubt. Yet they have only as much power as we give them. And no one wants to live in a humorless world. Just remember, “smile when you say that!”
Of course, the WaPo writer couldn’t help put a political comment in the article, quoting the mayor (that would be Presidente) of San Miguel de Allende saying, “Despite the fact that Donald Trump insults my country every day, here we receive the entire international community, beginning with Americans, with open arms and hearts.” Looks like no topic can be discussed without covering the Trump angle. And just as inevitably, the comments section (I know, I know, NEVER read the comments section!) was full of MAGA fanatics with useful comments like “if Mexico is so great, why are 100 million Mexicans trying to come here?” Sigh.
The bulk of the article had useful data on the trend. It seems to be driven by three sources. First, there are those 10,000 baby boomers retiring every day, and they have to go somewhere, and they don’t have much in retirement savings, and Mexico is cheap. Next are the numerous (600,000+) children of Mexican immigrants who were born in the States and have dual citizenship; some are returning to Mexico. Last, there are younger people who have internet-enabled work, and they (sometimes with family in tow) can live anywhere, and they choose Mexico.
How many total, and of each group? Nobody knows. Mexico has only a rudimentary capability to track arrivals and departures. Like the US, they do a good job at airports, not so much anywhere else. Mexico is implementing a more thorough system which would also work at the land/sea borders, but perhaps mañana. Mexico estimates 800,00; the US embassy in Mexico City says 1.5 million. The embassy estimate is probably based on STEP enrollments (NOTE: if you are an American expat living in Mexico, go online at the link and enroll in STEP; it helps the State Department keep track of you in case of emergency/natural disaster), so even that figure is probably an undercount.
Where are they? They are all over, but the largest concentrations are in Puerto Vallarta (35,000) Lake Chapala (20,000) and San Miguel (10,000). These totals are primarily the retirees and young internet workers; the dual national are spread all over, often based on from where in Mexico their families originally came. PV is a beach city of almost 400,000, and San Miguel has 100,000, so the expat totals there are noticeable but not dramatic. The 20,000 expats around Lake Chapala, a number which swells due to snowbirds, represent almost a third of the Mexican population in the municipality.
The WaPo article focuses on San Miguel de Allende, which has been the “hot” expat destination recently. The article does a good–if brief–job of describing expat activities and challenges. It also points out that the Mexican federal government is starting to take note of the advantages, and implications, of the growing American presence south of the border.
Despite all the negative press and unfortunate political commentary in Washington, Mexico remains both the top tourist destination for Americans (almost 37 million in 2018, and increasing) and the top expat destination. Just think what the numbers would be if the American media didn’t give non-stop coverage to violence and corruption!
Little vampires, but not to worry, they are the delicious kind, one might even say…succulent. Sorry, couldn’t resist.
We ended our series of local day trips by driving home along Lake Chapala’s south shore, through the village of San Luis Soyatlán. It is a tiny strip along the main highway with a few parallel streets both lakeside and mountainside, not unlike Ajijic. However, it is a pueblo real, not a mestizo gringo comunidad like Ajijic. In my experience, San Luis Soyatlán is mostly known for being a place with a carretera that is barely two cars wide, so when trucks navigate it, or when anybody stops to shop on the main street, a “one-way-at-a-time” backup ensues.
But why would anybody stop on the narrow main street, knowing what happens? And what are they stopping for, anyway? Well we found out.
Not quite drive through, but roadside!
Vampiritos. Little vampires, as it were. It seems San Luis Soyatlán is the birthplace of a refreshing Mexican cocktail that is now famous across the country: the Vampirito. The Vampirito begins with sangrita (itself a mix of OJ, tomato juice, chile, salt, and lime) poured on ice. Then they add a custom mix of grapefruit soda (called Squirt), more fresh-squeezed OJ, and of course, your personal selection of tequila. The result is a fruity, slightly sweet, slightly salty, carbonated drink with a little zing (remember the chile?) and a little (or a lot of) kick. The special signature of this drink is that it is often served in a large plastic bag with a straw, because regular customers complained that plastic cups spilled in their cars when driving over Mexico’s many topes!
So you see people walking around with gold-fish bags filled with blood red fluid and a straw, happily sipping away; no one would ever think of driving while drinking one, apparently.
You can get an 80 or 100 peso bag…more if you choose a better tequila.
Since it was 12:01, we caused the required traffic back up and pulled over on the wrong side of the street in front of one of the many stands which sell Vampiritos in San Luis Soyatlán.
Judy caused the line to back up because this was our first vampirito…
But she returned with two-fisted success!
Judy opted for cups, because the bags seemed too precarious while driving (for her, not me…no vampirito until I got home). The drinks are as advertised: refreshing and delicious, but dangerous, as there is no tequila taste despite watching the shots poured into the drink. One of the more enjoyable aspects of being an expat is trying flavor combinations that would have made me retch back home, only to learn those people aren’t crazy, this really does taste good!
