Culture – Page 24 – Pat the Expat

Cinqo de Mayo

A short commercial break from Camino news!

Ever heard of dynamic equivalence? It is a form of translation where the new, translated text seeks to capture the meaning of the original language without worrying about what it literally said. It is used appropriately when translating an idiomatic phrase like “killing two birds with one stone” which is not about birds, a stone, or killing. However, it can be very controversial in other genres (like Biblical texts) because at its root dynamic equivalence substitutes the translator’s understanding for what was actually said.

Anyway, I’m going to attempt a little dynamic equivalent translation of a concept you may already know: Cinqo de Mayo. Now the obvious direct translation is the 5th of May, and that is correct as far as it goes. In the US, Cinqo de Mayo has become a multi-purpose ethnic holiday for all things Mexican, like St. Patrick’s day for the Irish.

Some Americans think Cinqo de Mayo is Mexican independence day, akin to our 4th of July. Its not, that’s September 16th, which began with “El Grito” (The Yell) and started the revolution which overthrew the Spanish. Some may know Cinqo de Mayo commemorates a battle, but what battle, and what war?

Here’s the deal. After the US invasion of Mexico in 1846-48, Mexican society eventually broke down into an internal conflict which lasted three years and bankrupted the country by 1861. Mexico had outstanding debts with several European governments, which sent forces to intimidate Mexico unless the debts were repaid. Mexico negotiated a settlement, but France (under Napoleon III) decided the time was ripe (since the US was busy tearing itself apart and the British were as angry as anyone at Mexico) to invade and establish a Mexican Empire aligned with France.

French troops seized the port of Veracruz and marched toward Mexico City. On May 5th, 1862, a small, ill-equipped Mexican garrison in Puebla decisively defeated a larger French professional force, which withdrew. The bad news was the victory was followed by a larger French invasion force which did overthrow the Mexican government and install Maximilian I, although his “Latin American Empire” (a manufactured notion whose only legacy was that term “Latin America”) lasted only three years before the Mexicans rebelled, overthrew and killed Maximilian.

The French Army was considered the best in the world at the time. Cinqo de Mayo represented a singular victory in an otherwise losing campaign of a war which was ultimately won by Mexico. While it was significant at the time, it was afterward really only celebrated locally in the Mexican state of Puebla. The big American celebration has as much to do with advertising (beer companies) and the willingness of the Mexican expatriate community in the States to join in the fun. There is a parallel here to the Irish expat community in the US: St. Patrick’s Day was a solemn religious feast in Ireland, but it morphed into the brewfest it is in the States when the Irish there embraced it.

So how should Americans understand Cinqo de Mayo? Here is my dynamic equivalent translation: Bunker Hill Day. Most should be familiar with the American Revolution battle of Bunker Hill (actually fought on Breed’s Hill).

The British forces in Boston stormed the heights, winning the battle but at great cost. Ultimately they withdrew from the hill and from Boston, fought seven more years and lost, ending British control of those colonies. Bunker Hill Day is still a state holiday in Massachusetts, but little remembered elsewhere. Maybe the beer companies will get a hold of it too someday!

Both battles were more symbolically than militarily important, both pointed to ultimate victory, and both were only remembered regionally. So when you hoist a Margarita (rocas, con sal) and eat your guacamole this year on Cinqo de Mayo, you can regale your friends with the parallels to Bunker Hill; just be ready to duck when they start throwing nachos!

Across the Pyrenees

Some caminos begin with breathtaking videos from the mountain vistas of the Pyrenees. This was not one of those. As we stepped out of the Porte Espana, the rain began. The temperature only climbed to the mid 40s, and then fell as we ascended the path. A dense fog set in, or maybe we entered the storm clouds themselves as we climbed, but all we could see was the next turn, a path which only went up. The steady cold rain turned the trail into a red, muddy mess. It took us about two and a half hours to complete the 8 kilometers to Orrison, where we had a hot soup for lunch then settled into bunks for a rest before a communal evening meal.

The ascent was every bit as challenging as promised, with the weather simply a bonus. The dense fog made distance indeterminate, which is all the more daunting uphill.

Judy finally said “if we turn one more corner to find another hill, I will cry.” St. James took pity on us, and the next corner uncovered a short downhill stretch before our destination. We reached Orisson safely, and even found a dryer for our gear, which wasn’t going to dry until June given the local temperature and humidity.

Pictures will have to wait until another day. I am the only one around with any internet connectivity, and it is very S. L. O. W.

The communal meal was lovely: we sat with a group of Aussies and had a cheery good time. Now you might think that bad weather, hard exercise, hearty food and plentiful wine would occasion a visit by the bane of albergue nights, the snorer. Not so! As I tried to fall asleep, I only heard one sound at first: a wild boar which seemed to be rooting and rutting with great gusto somewhere near our cabin. Then I heard another sound: some energetic young Basque had a battery powered chain saw, and was attempting to chase off the boar. The boar versus Basque battle raged pretty much all night long, while neither seemed to gain the upper hand. But at least I didn’t hear any snoring!😉

Saint Jean Pied de Port

Saint John “at the foot of the pass” is the traditional beginning of the Camino Frances, or French Way, the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. Technically in France, Saint Jean is a Basque town, just like those across the border in Spain. It lies along the main route across the Pyrenees mountains: Napoleon took this way, as did Roland and the Moors. None found the local inhabitants very welcoming.

We had a better reception. We arrived on May 1st, Labor Day everywhere but the US, so many businesses were closed. At least there were no local partisans lurking with ill intent. Saint Jean is a picturesque, tiny village. It is a company town, and the business is pilgrimage. There are restaurants geared toward pilgrims, hotels and albergues, gear shops, and a pilgrimage office where one goes to officially begin one’s pilgrimage.

As we got in late in the afternoon on Tuesday, we planned to take a full rest day on Wednesday, attend to some admin details, then begin the Camino bright and early on Thursday. We met some fellow pilgrims, walked the old town walls, visited the citadelle, and had a proper French picnic in the park. All the while, looming over us in the distance, was the route over the Pyrenees. Tomorrow, buen camino!

Lourdes, France

After an uneventful Ryanair flight, we arrived in Lourdes, France. I do need to give Ryanair kudos: although their seats are uncomfortable and they hawk way too much merchandise, they boarded the aircraft efficiently, took off on time, landed early, and did not lose our bags. We didn’t get a super cheap fare, but they were the only carrier with a non-stop flight from Krakow to Lourdes, which was key to making the Eastern European part of our pilgrimage work.

Certainly most readers are familiar with the story of Bernadette Soubirous, the young French girl who saw an apparition of the Virgin Mary in 1858. Mary asked her to have a chapel built over a foul local spring which would prove to be a source of health. The spring became clear and the waters became a source of miraculous cures, leading Lourdes to become a major pilgrimage site. Bernadette went on to become a nun, and died from tuberculosis in 1879. Her remains have been exhumed and examined by doctors three times, all commenting on the general lack of decay. While the Church has found the private revelation of Lourdes worthy of belief (i.e., it is consistent with the public revelation of Jesus Christ), no Catholic is obligated to believe in it. As is often the case, local church leaders were very skeptical, and scrutinized the case closely. It was only after Bernadette explained that the woman who appeared to her called herself “the Immaculate Conception,” an obscure reference to a Papal decree on Mary that the nearly illiterate Basque schoolgirl would not have been familiar with, that the local officials’ opinion changed.

For perspective, the grotto is lower right here

However you feel about Marian apparitions, the grotto at Lourdes has been the sight of 67 confirmed miraculous cures since it was established. There are thousands more claimed cures, but boards of doctors have officially only identified these 67. The power of faith among the sick coming to Lourdes is something to behold. There is an endless stream of people on crutches, in bandages, in wheelchairs, all heading to the grotto or the baths.

We had the opportunity to attend Mass in English and pray the rosary. We also hiked to the top of the citadelle.

In the fort they have a very nice museum of the Pyrenees, and some amazing views.

Here’s a money shot:

We enjoyed a first taste of Basque cuisine (hearty vegetable soup, octopus in chili garlic sauce, pear crumble, all washed down with a fine local red wine) and got ready for our last move before the Camino.

One last comment: Lourdes is sometimes called the “Catholic Disneyland” because of the commercialization surrounding the grotto. On the grounds it is peaceful and solemn, but next door?

Krakow: Sacred and Profane (II)

The city of Krakow is a jewel. What makes it so unique is that it has been any important city since the 7th century, yet it has remained relatively intact over all those violent years. If you have visited Europe you know there are many amazing cities where so much of the architecture has been recreated after its destruction during the Second World War. Krakow escaped such destruction. By the time the Nazis occupied it the fighting was over at the beginning of the war. When the Soviet Army came to liberate Krakow they swept through and caused very little damage. Thus Krakow retains much of its charming medieval character.

This is St. Mary’s Basilica in Krakow’s old town; it dates to the 14th century. I have no interior pictures because we entered to pray, not as tourists, so no photos.

We took some organized tours for our final days in Krakow. One went to the Wieliczka salt mine, an absolutely huge underground site on the outskirts of town. The mine functioned from the 1200s until 2007; now it’s a UNESCO world heritage site. It has numerous chambers and over 100 miles of tunnels. The most amazing thing to me was the various salt sculptures completed by the miners, along with almost 40 chapels: the miners apparently never wanted to be far from a place to pray when they were underground. And yes, JPII even has a salt mine statue!

“Polish for foreigners?” I guess the domestic market is saturated.

I’ll conclude my Krakow thoughts by returning to John Paul II. Our tour guide compared the way locals feel about him to Americans and Elvis. While the comparison is superficial, it does capture the warmth of the relationship. Perhaps based on their unique history, the Poles grasp something about JPII that others miss: just as the triumph of freedom over Nazi tyranny was essentially the story of FDR and Churchill, the triumph of freedom over communism ended up being the story of Reagan and Wojtyla.

Krakow: Sacred and Profane (I)

Vilnius was just beginning to look like Spring; in Krakow, Spring has fully sprung.

Prior to his death in 2005 there was some evidence of Saint Pope John Paul’s life in Krakow. However since the death of its former bishop and first Polish Pope, Krakow has really embraced its most favorite son and now he literally looms over the city. Karol Wojtyla was a most amazing character. He lost his mom and brother when he was still young, and his dad died during World War II. All alone and in the midst of Nazi-occupied Poland, he decided to become a Catholic priest, and attended a secret underground seminary in Krakow.

This sounds matter-of-fact now, but at the time it was a particularly courageous decision. The Nazis had singled out the Catholic hierarchy (all of the priests and religious) as well as the Polish nobility for liquidation. They sought to turn Poland into a vast farm and industrial labor camp to support their master race. Polish peasants would be the workforce for their Nazi overseers, but if the Polish leadership was still intact, they would oppose the Nazi plan. By joining the Polish clergy, Karol Wojtyla was signing his death warrant, since 90% of Polish priests were killed during the war!

Today, Saint John Paul is everywhere in Krakow. We visited his shrine, as well as the Shrine of Divine Mercy which John Paul established in Krakow in honor of Saint Faustina. Unlike some modern churches which resemble theaters-in-the-round or gymnasiums, the Divine Mercy Basilica is a remarkably modern take on ancient religious architecture.

When we travel, we prefer to stay in eclectic local accomodations and eat where the locals do. For example, our BnB in Vilnius was a converted monastery connected to a church, but with no resident staff. In Krakow our room is just around the corner from the main square, off a dark entryway and up three flights of stairs. We had an excellent lunch at one of the few remaining milk bars in Poland. Milk bars were a communist phenomenon: inexpensive, government subsidized diners serving large portions of hearty fare for the workers of the worker’s paradise. After communism collapsed, most milk bars did too. Krakow still has one, although it is a cross between a traditional milk bar and a Portlandia sandwich shop. Dinner that night was a basement cafe hidden inside a library. The theme was Grandma’s cabin in the woods. You stand in line to order, pay and wait for your number to be called, retrieve and eat your dinner, then bus your own plates. Meanwhile, the staff is mostly grandmothers supervising everything.

There is an amazing archaeological museum beneath the Rynek market in the middle of Krakow. They discovered layered ruins back in the early 2000s, and decided to unearth and preserve them. They did so, then rebuilt a roof over the now underground museum so the square looks unchanged. The layers of market history trace all the way back to the 14th century, showcased in a state-of-the-art facility which overlays video effects on the exposed ruins. The market square remains much as it has been for 700 years, despite all the other changes over that period.

Krakow is a very interesting mix of well-preserved tradition, proud culture, and vibrant youth (Jagiellonian University is one of the world’s oldest) and well worth the visit.

Travel day

Wednesday was a non-stop day on the move. We departed for the bus station around 5 AM and hiked a mile in the dark with everything we owned packed on us like mules. It was so early nothing was open yet except the McDonalds at the adjacent train stration, so we had that for breakfast. We took an uneventful 8 hour bus ride to Warsaw, where we intended to catch a train to Krakow.

But the first train was full, so we ended up with one first class ticket and one standing ticket on a later train. Which took 3 hours to get there. I’ll let you guess who got what ticket. What I don’t understand is that with one hour left on the trip, the train staff opened up another car and gave us seats, when they could have just sold us those seats in the first place, and the standing ticket I had was discounted. Sometimes you just have to accept things as they come: those “why?” questions can drive you crazy.

The extra time in Warsaw gave us a chance to grab a lunch at…wait for it…McDonalds. This one was outfitted with surly big city folk, people crowding the aisles and talking loudly on cell phones, security guards making sure only customers used the restroom, and wait staff who dismissed our questions with a contemptuous wave of the back of the hand. We looked like a couple of refugees with all our packs and bags, and we were treated accordingly. Even the view out the window was ugly.

We squezzed on board the train, rode to Krakow and disembarked. We had to traverse a shopping mall to get to the old city and arrive at our BnB, where we unpacked and went out for some warm cabbage soup, kielbasa, and beer before collapsing into bed.

Travel days are never fun. They must be rated on an entirely different scale. Did you arrive safely? Were you injured? Were you ever at risk? If you can answer yes, no, and no, it was a good day.

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!

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!