Culture – Page 8 – Pat the Expat

Bayeux, Normandy

For such a small town in an out-of-the-way place, Bayeux is at the center of so much history. Bayeux lies just inland from the English Channel in the Normandy peninsula, where great apples, great cheese, and great history collide.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any cuter

First off, it was a seat for the Norman Duke William (the Bastard), before he set off in 1066 to conquer the Anglo-Saxon throne promised him by King Edward, but subsequently denied him by Edward’s brother-in-law, Harold. At the battle of Hastings, Harold got an arrow through the eye and William got the English throne, which came with a great improvement in nickname, as in William the Conqueror. Take that, Conan the Barbarian!

All of this history is captured in the Bayeux Tapestry, a real work of artistry in embroidered linen which tells the tale in seventy illustrations which make the story come alive even for an illiterate audience, as it was completed (probably) shortly after the Norman Conquest to celebrate William’s victory and substantiate his claim to the throne.

Next there’s the fact that Bayeux lies at the center of the line of beaches which gained World War II fame as the site of the Normandy invasion (great trivia question: how many US Marines landed in the largest amphibious invasion in history? None. The Marine Corps fought the Pacific campaign, while D-Day was a European Theater operation. No slight intended; just a great bar bet!).

We took a tour of all the famous American sites (sorry, only had one day, so we neglected our British and Canadian allies, let alone the Germans!). Random thoughts and photos:

Everyone has heard of the hedgerows in Normandy. They feature prominently in D-Day films and accounts of the battle. I never realized what made them so special. Nor did the Allies. Seems the simple translation for the French term bocage is “hedgerow,” something common also to England. But in England the hedges are purpose-built as fences. It seems the hedgerows in Normandy serve the same function, but they are the remnants of the original forests which covered the peninsula in antiquity. As farms and fields and roads were built, the builders simply cleared to the edge but left the forest strip at the edge: instant hedge. Except it is entirely natural, so it grows extremely dense, as in impenetrable. People can’t see through it, and have difficulty traversing it. Vehicles bounce off; even tanks are forced into an unnatural elevation which exposes their weaker belly-armor. Which made Normandy a battlefield with close-in surprise engagements. Enough of that!

Utah beach landing site went fairly easy

You can easily see the differences between the US landing beaches. Utah has a gentle dune with less fortification. Omaha has a steep bluff with interlocking German military positions. My Omaha picture is the pathway made famous as Dog Easy Sector in Saving Private Ryan.

I was really excited about visiting St. Mere Eglise, the first town liberated in France. But it’s become some kind of Paratrooper-Disney production, complete with a paratrooper dummy hanging from the belfry! Now that really did happen the morning of June 6th, but why is the square filled with tourist kitsch, US Army Jeep rentals, and military surplus stores?

The American cemetery is a favorite of all nations, as it is well-kept by US taxpayer dollars!

On the other hand, the American military cemetery is a treat: well-planned, manicured, with excellent monuments and art, all set on the bluffs overlooking the beaches. This is a can’t miss site, and make sure and visit for the flag lowering/taps at 5:00 pm sharp!

Normandy is famous for its apple ciders (especially Calvados) and Camembert cheese, a decidedly delicious combination! And of course seafood galore!

We thoroughly enjoyed our days in Normandy, which by chance happened just before the annual commemoration of the June 6th landings. While a few sites were closed for preparations, and the crowds were beginning to swell, the weather was excellent (helpful hint: it’s the coast, there are always tremendous winds, so the temperature usually feels 10-15 degrees colder than it reads).

Lisieux

You may never have heard of it. Or know why it’s famous. But it’s a story worth sharing.

Once upon a time, in the late 19th century, there was a young girl named Marie Françoise-Thérèse Martin. She went by Thérèse, and grew up in the little French town of Lisieux. She decided to enter the Carmelite convent at age fifteen in 1888, following the path of her two older sisters. There she served the quiet, dedicated life of personal and collective prayer of the Carmelite order. After nine years of working, reading, and praying, she endured an eighteen-month battle with tuberculosis, from which she died. And she would have passed unnoticed into the hereafter. Except she also wrote, and her writings held great signifcance.

Thérèse had always felt a call to be holy, but as she learned more about her Catholic faith and the lives of the Saints who went before her, she felt discouraged. She was not called to lead armies like Jeanne d’Arc, or to counsel Popes like Catherine of Siena. She simply followed the rules set down by Saint Theresa when she reformed the order, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed. But she pondered her situation mightily, and wrote down those thoughts she developed. She called it her “little way” and described it thusly:

“I will seek out a means of getting to Heaven by a little way – very short and very straight little way that is wholly new. We live in an age of inventions; nowadays the rich need not trouble to climb the stairs, they have lifts instead. Well, I mean to try and find a lift by which I may be raised unto God, for I am too tiny to climb the steep stairway of perfection. […] Thine Arms, then, O Jesus, are the lift which must raise me up even unto Heaven. To get there I need not grow. On the contrary, I must remain little, I must become still less.”
St. Thérèse

She committed to doing everything she did so as to show love to others. No great deeds, no miracles, no deeply-developed theology. Just her little way. She lived by this creed, and wrote about it in a journal which was published posthumously as The Story of a Soul. Her final months were agonizing but she embraced the suffering with the same joy she embraced her life.

Her memorial crypt (no, those are not her remains)

After her death, her “little way” became an international sensation. She was canonized (recognized as a Saint) only twenty-eight years after her death. The meaningful way she relates the call to holiness to everyday life has found welcome reception among the faithful on every continent. Then-Pope John Paul II named her a Doctor of the Church (one of the four women so honored out of thirty-three total doctors), a title given to those Saints whose development of theology or doctrine has special authority.

The little girl from Lisieux has a profound worlwide following, and a great basilica in her honor. She answered the question “what has prayer ever done?” by changing millions of lives with hers. She also proved that while being great may be good, being good is always great.

Chartres

When you travel, you have many plans, with many options and even more contingencies. You try to put all the pieces together, and you work hard to make all the various components fit. Sometimes it all works perfectly. Other times, well, were today.

Irony alert

We got an early start from the Meuse valley and headed across Paris to visit Chartres, home of the famous 12th Century Gothic Cathedral. Not just any church, or even any Gothic Church: THE crème de la crème of Gothic Cathedrals: Notre-Dame de Chartres. We planned to arrive around noon, tour the Cathedral, eat late dinner, catch the evening illumination, and be off the next morning. This was certainly a one-and-done leg of our trip, consciously so, but it was also the only such leg.

Alas, we were using two forms of driving directions: Waze (which includes traffic) and a rental car GPS system (which doesn’t). Unfortunately, we had the latter (not the former) on for voice instructions, and the GPS took us straight into a massive traffic jam. We recognized our mistake and switched, but by then we were only one of many Parisians and tourists trying to maneuver down backroads, across parking lots, heck trying anything to get where we were going. This should have been a clue: why so much traffic around noon on a Thursday in France?

Thus we ended up arriving closer to two in the afternoon, but still with plenty of time to tour the Cathedral. We went to a little cafe across the square, obviously a favorite of locals and tourists, to get some lunch before the tour. While we were lunching, I glanced at the visiting hours for the Cathedral, which read: “Holiday: some hours may be changed or restricted.” “Holiday? What holiday?” I mused. Now as serious Catholics (Judy & I liken ourselves to Shi’ite Catholics, to borrow comedian Jim Gaffigan’s line), we knew it was Ascension Thursday, but this is secular France, for Godssake! Even back in the States most of the dioceses have conveniently moved the celebration from Thursday to the next Sunday, to avoid putting too much burden on the faithful.

But in France? It’s a national holiday! Holy day? Maybe. Holiday: Tout à fait! So there was heavy traffic headed out of Paris in all directions (especially to Chartres, which is just an hour away by autoroute). And there were crowds and tour groups all over the place. English-langauge guide books: nope. Guided tour headsets? No. Wait, what if we wait for some to be turned in? Nope, no more today (at 3:30 pm). There was free concert planned due to the holiday, so the Cathedral was closing early. Mind you, we weren’t missing out on the tour because obligatory Mass was planned on a holy day; we were missing it for a public concert on a holiday!

We were able to walk around with the crowds and get some happy snaps:

The Cathedral is as impressive as advertised. Built with flying buttresses around the sides, it enabled the ceilings to be higher and the walls to be thinner, and to include larger windows, which were filled with original stained glass. Despite its antiquity, the building is mostly “as was,” never bombed out and replaced like so much of Europe.

Even our room was unique, and had a view:

In the evening, the town illuminates twenty-one different historic structures, but of course the Cathedral is the main attraction. The illumination was about twenty minutes long and took on several different (sometimes whimsical) themes. They were all amazing, as you’ll see:

In the end, we had a good meal, got to experience the Cathedral–if not learn much about it–and witness the illumination. Worth the marginal pain and suffering!

Verdun

After a quick rental car pick-up from the Mediterranean coast, we reversed our river cruise up the Rhône valley, then continued north (eight hours on autoroutes or toll roads) into the Meuse valley and ended up in the little village of Ancemont. There we chose to stay at Chateau Lebessiere while we visited the Verdun battlefield. First, the chateau. Run by René and his wife Marie, the chateau was a real ducal retreat even unto the 1950s, when US Air Force Colonels used it as quarters for the then-American airbase at Étain-Rouves. But the Americans left (President DeGaulle impolitely asked them to go) and the Chateau fell into disrepair, until René decided to buy it (it was a wreck filled with squatters). It took him and his wife seven years to evict the squatters and restore the chateau to its former glory. And glorious it is!

If you ever decide to visit Verdun, or the American World War I battlefields near St. Mihiel, or Bastogne, or the Meuse river valley, stay here. It is spectacular, fairly priced, and incredibly welcoming. And the food (dinner & breakfast included)? Beyond belief!

But one does not travel to this area for the food (although it is good), the wine (ditto), or even the cheese; one travels for the histoire. Americans should be forgiven for not knowing too much about the Great War. Our experience was late and short, and it shows even in our language. We refer to World War I or the First World War, making this epochal event into some kind of prequel. An American version of the history of this period, if it is taught at all, goes something like this: corrupt, tottering European kingdoms stumbled into a disastrous war which stupidly cost millions of lives, but eventually the Americans joined in to save the day and democracy flourished. All of which has elements of truth. But the history is so much more than this.

Verdun is firstly a battlefield, and there is quite a story there. By 1916 (two years in to the war), the trench lines on the Western Front ran from the Swiss border to the English Channel. There was literally nowhere to maneuver, so the Germans decided to launch a massive attack on Verdun, a French fortress city which the Germans had managed to surround on three sides earlier in the war. The German high command hoped to use suprise and an unprecedented artillery bombardment to take high ground overlooking the city itself, which they believed would goad the French into suicidal counterattacks that would bleed the French Army dry.

The little village of Fleury was the deepest penetration by the Germans, and it changed hands sixteen times. Nothing is there today but archeological markers, like it was a settlement from a thousand years ago, not one hundred years ago.

The German offensive began with four million artillery shells: that is not a typo. The sound of the unrelenting multi-day bombardment was heard one-hundred miles away as a continuous thunder. Everything along the French front lines was destroyed: forests, towns, bridges, trenches. The Germans made steady initial progress, but the French rushed reinforcements and counterattacked before the Germans secured the high ground. The battle went back and forth for ten months: the longest single battle of the war. In the end, the German plan failed, with unfathomable results: over 700,000 dead or wounded on both sides along a thirty-mile front. In the end, little territory was gained or lost.

That is the military story of Verdun, but there is a world-historical story, too. Verdun represented the high-water mark of a civilization. The apogee of European civilization wasn’t found in the enlightened salons of Paris, nor in the hedonistic cabarets of post-war Berlin. It was found among the forests, farms, and villages of the Meuse valley near Verdun. People of that day and age were cosmopolitan: they travelled, imported items, argued over new ideas. They followed the current scientific breakthroughs and sought to perfect mankind and men. The governments may have been monarchies, but the armies were thoroughly democratic: doctors and doormen, poets and plumbers. The rich may have sought officer ranks, but they served on the frontlines nonetheless. The soldiers were not brutes: they knew early on what the war was like, and yet they continued to show up, and serve, and die.

They enlisted for something bigger than themselves, they fought for each other, and they died for little reason. But the armies which fought around Verdun in 1916 were still committed to causes, and they refused the “there’s nothing worth dying for” sentiment. Level any criticism you want at the inept political leaders. Do the same for the Generals. But what can one say about a culture that can produce such young men?

On 9/11, a few Americans aboard Flight 93 took matters into their own hands, and heedless of the consequences, they stopped the slaughter in one day and at something less than 3,000 dead. Now imagine that slaughter continued: new flights, new fights, more crashes, more deaths, every day for ten months. And with that outcome, you would equal what the French and Germans experienced at Verdun.

All subsequent 20th Century history grows from the Great War: America’s rise, Russia’s instability, the “German problem,” the end of the British Empire, France’s loss of elan, de-colonization, the rise of fascism and communism, demographic catastrophe, the roaring ’20s, therapeutic psychology, consumerism, atheism, and on and on. We very much live in a world determined by what happened during the “war to end all wars.” Europe was never the same after the Great War, and Verdun was the battlefield where its heroes became the ghosts who haunt it to this day.

Arles

Our last port on the river cruise was the ancient city of Arles, on the Rhône river but also practically on the Mediterranean coast in Provence. The Romans first saw the strategic value in a settlement here, controlling the river route into Gaul. The city lies near marshes and a nature preserve (the Camargue) that helps it retain a certain out-of-the-way, reserved character.

Arles is proud of its Roman heritage, and the ancient local language, Provençal, is more akin to Latin then French, although of course French predominates today. Arles retains a Roman coliseum, a theater, baths, an aqueduct: all the trappings of Imperial Rome. Its coliseum has an interesting history. In the Middle Ages, it was occupied by locals who made it into a small walled-town-within-the-town, full of little houses and shops. Eventually, the city government evicted everyone and re-established the arena. In fact, they still use the coliseum for bull fights, either of the Spanish (killing the bull) or French (irritating the bull) variety.

Arles is as charming as a painting, as in a van Gogh painting. He spent a few troubled months here (as everywhere) generating over 300 hundred paintings of landmarks still visible today. Oh, and yes, he cut off his ear here, too. Picasso and Gaugin also spent productive time here, but left bodily intact. Few if any of these great artists’ work remains here.

We also visited the remains of the historic fortress village of Les Baux de Provence. This was an independent town nestled in formidable, rocky hills north-east of Arles. This one-time principality held out for hundreds of years before finally being sacked and destoyed by the French under Cardinal Richelieu. To keep the fort from ever proving a problem again, the French army leveled it, although the town itself remains. Unfortunately, to add insult to injury, the town has become a tourist trap where only a few people actually live, the prices are high, and the tour groups run non-stop. C’est la vie! At least real history happened here, and the views are amazing. There was one hidden gem: we found a small 12th century church (intact) with some amazing stained-glass windows, donated by the Prince of Monaco (who once held title to the area) as a peace gesture. Somehow the modern glass fits perfectly well in the ancient setting:

Arles and Provence have much to offer. We didn’t get to visit any lavender fields, but we did get to taste some Provençal olive oil, which is hard to find outside of France. They export some (to the States) but mostly produce fresh for the French markets, as locals prefer the lighter, softer tastes (compared to Italian or Greek olive oil). Hard to blame them, but I guess that makes them, well, provincial and Provençal!

A: Ex-cursing

Q: what do you call the action of going on excursions?

As we’ve sailed down the Saône and Rhône, we’ve had the chance to take several group tours (excursions in the parlance of cruises) and a few personal side trips, too. This being France, and wine country to boot, we’ve done a few vintners.

The first was called Château de Chasselas, near the town of Mâcon. The village of Chasselas lies literally on the dividing line between the Bourgogne (Chardonnay) and Beaujolais areas. One could look at the hillside fields on one side of town and see grapes destined to be Chardonnay, while on the other side of town the grapes were headed to Beaujolais. We tasted Chardonnay while learning of the travails of the vintner, who left the high-intensity world of Paris fashion to start a family-run winery, which is also high-risk. I guess the grapes are less temperamental than Parisian fashion critics!

Next we tried Beaujolais at a winery called Domaine Paire, a family-run affair for over 400 years! Jean-Jacques recently turned over the business to his son, but he happily gave us a lesson in Beaujolais, especially the difference between the Nouveau (which has turned into something of an event despite being of, shall we say, “fresh” quality) and Cru Beaujolais which has all of the body, depth, and aroma of great French wine. We practiced the subtle art of wine tasting (first eye, then nose, then mouth) under the master’s friendly tutleage. Nothing beats a little learning reinforced with practical exercise. I looked forward to the homework!

Of course, excursion tours also involve following the flag (your cruise tour guide), while listening to a receiver hanging from your lanyard connected to an earpiece in your ear! We visited the tiny hamlet of Oingt. Bonus if you guess how to pronounce it: like a baby’s cry: “WAAH.” Once an abandoned medieval ruin, Oingt was gradually reclaimed and rebuilt by artisans and now serves as charming–albeit touristy–photo op. Still, it does provide amazing set-pieces, so why not?

Another mandatory tour stop was at Les Halles de Lyon, to which the name of chef Paul Bocuse was added after he died in 2018. This market is filled with the very best of wine, meat, fish, cheese, chocolate, bread and all things culinary. You can shop, sample, or just browse, but I guarantee you will gain five pounds even just looking!

We went off on our own to brave the wild transport system of Lyon (actually very easy to use) and visit la Maison des Canuts: the silk-weavers museum. It was a small affair, jam-packed with information about the centuries-long history of silk weaving associated with Lyon. The Canuts, or weavers, were mainstays of Lyonnais working culture, and even famously rebelled in the 1830s over government regulation (such rebellions are a passion in France). Canut culture inaugurated the bouchons (which we covered previously), the traboules (ditto), and are essential to understanding Lyon, although the Canuts themselves are in the main long-gone.

In Avignon, we ditched the crowd to find a church for Sunday Mass. Now you might think finding a church in Catholic France, let alone the one-time seat of the papacy (French Kings held various Popes hostage in Avignon for sixty-seven years) would be easy, and you would be . . . right. Despite France’s increasing secularization, we easily found the 10:00 am Sunday Mass at Avignon’s Cathedral Notre-Dame Des Doms.

Just another 12th Century Cathedral!

And we did another wine-tasting! This time Chateauneuf du Pape at the Bouachon vineyard in the heart of Provence:

Even my Irish liver needed a rest from all this rich French food and wine!

A few fleeting shots of Avignon as we near the cruise end:

Cruising (River Style)

We’re on a long-delayed (two years) Avalon Waterways river cruise down the Saône and Rhône rivers in France. If you’ve never taken a river cruise, or especially if you have done only ocean cruises, you owe it to yourself to try out a river cruise, especially in Europe.

What’s so good about them? First off, it lacks the bag-drag (in common with ocean cruises). You unpack once, then visit multiple places. However, unlike ocean cruises which often drop you via a tender or in a slightly seedy port area, river cruises (especially in Europe) often leave you in the middle of town, with easy access to everything.

Next, river cruise ships are smaller, so they are manageable. You can’t possibly get lost on one, and they’re easy to navigate. The other side of this is they lack some of the extravagant attractions of ocean cruises: no climbing walls, water slides, or go-cart tracks. Maybe a tiny gym, a single closet-sized spa, no casino, no art auctions, no shops. Depending on your tastes, these may all be good or bad.

Unlike ocean cruises, which usually cruise overnight, leaving you to visit a new port each day, river ships cruise both during the day and night. Seeing the countryside is part of the experience (the ocean view rarely changes, except when entering/leaving port), and it is not at all unusal to go on an excursion from one place and meet back up with the ship in another place. There are also opportunities on river cruises to go out on your own (picnic, ride bikes, etc.) and meet up with the cruise down the river (of course, with prior coordination).

Because of the smaller size, the river cruise experience is more intimate. With 1-200 people on board, you may literally meet everyone during the cruise. There are no assigned seats, but there are assigned meal times (snacks and quick bites are available other times), where you choose your meal companions (or dine alone). Menu options often include regional fare bought that day, so it’s fresh and authentic, but that means fewer choices, too.

Like ocean cruises, lines have reputations (party boats, specialty themes, more or less formal) so it pays to research. Also, lines offer wildly disparate options, so comparing prices is a chore: free drinks versus Wifi packages versus free excursions, for example. And on river cruises, the itinerary is far more important than the ship. There are no “days at sea,” so your cabin is mostly a bed and place to freshen up, and the ship a means to get from here to there. Which is not to say it’s any less luxurious: the crew to passenger ratios are very similar, depending upon the line.

Some of the oddities of river cruising? Your cabin may have a balcony or floor-to-ceiling windows. But when you dock in a town, the cruise ships all line-up side-by-side, connected. Which means when you throw open your window, you may be looking directly into the cabin on the ship next door! It does make embarking and disembarking interesting, as the crews make sure you get to the correct ship.

Long ago in Europe, news that the Vikings were coming spread terror throughout the land. Now that river cruising in Europe has exploded–with Viking Cruises leading the way as the mass-market choice–history repeats itself. One doesn’t get the frenzy that accompanies several ocean cruise ships disgorging all at once (ever see Venice during this experience? It’s worse than a flood!), but you can find yourself hitting the same tourist sites at the same time, all following along your designated flag and getting the same packaged tours. But river cruises often allow you to skip off on your own, too.

Like ocean cruises, there are options to fit every budget and traveling style. Want a weeklong cruise in a wine region where you only go one hundred kilometers? They got that. Want the grand tour from the Atlantic to the Black Sea via the Rhine, Main, and Danube? Got that too. Cruises aimed at local foods, wines, history? Check!

The river cruising set skews even older than the ocean cruising demographic. River cruises are generally more expensive, and they never attract the hard partyers, Spring-breakers, or casino enthusiasts. They are more sedate, more seasoned travellers, and more independent. Most Americans are familar with ocean cruises due to the numerous Carribean and Pacific cruises; river cruises in the States are just starting to take hold.

It’s possible (but highly unlikely) that you may get seasick on a river cruise. Weather plays out differentlythan on ocean ships: you’ll see no videos like those of ocean cruises which encounter heavy seas or hurricanes, but very-low or high water on a river cruise can result in bus transfers (around bridges) or even hotel stays. If it disrupts the cruise significantly, I have heard of cruise lines offering full refunds (in the form of future cruise credits).

Like ocean cruises, you’ll only get a taste of the towns you visit. It’s great if you want to try out a region, or if you already know a place and just want to make a quick re-visit. You will be well-fed (and drink-ed), pampered, and there are plenty of opportunties to go off on your own. Most lines have pre- and post-cruise extensions, which often give you a few days in major cities like Prague, Nice, or Barcelona, which aren’t on the cruise. We find river cruising an expensive but efficient form of travel vacation; hope you enjoy one soon!

Lyon, France

Everybody knows, and goes to, Paris. Less well-known is the former Roman capital of Gaul: Lugdunum. Never heard of it? Perhaps in its French form: Lyon? Lyon prides itself as France’s gastronomic capital, and as such, it is also arguably the world capital of gastronomy. We’re starting our three week tour of France and Italy with a stop in Lyon.

Long before Paris was much of anything, Lyon was a bustling city. Its strategic position at the confluence of the Rhône and Saône rivers was quickly assessed by the Romans, where they chose first a fortified settlement then built a city. Its navigable rivers–far into Gaul (France)–made it a trade port, and it eventually became a center for silk weaving, which had an unusual effect on its culinary traditions (more to follow).

It’s a beautiful city, with an impossible number of fine restaurants. Paul Bocuse, the legendary French chef who died in 2018, set up shop here, and his influence is deeply felt. Hundreds of aspiring chefs still train at his Institute, and the quality of culinary artistry in the city is very high. So we decided to spend a few days in Lyon before heading off on a river cruise down the Rhône.

After a day-and-a-half of flight delays and diversions (nothing serious), AeroMexico and Air France finally got us and our luggage to Lyon. Adjusting our eating habits to the French style was as difficult as overcoming jet lag. We arrived at 7:00 pm: early dinner time for the French. Our bodies were on -7 hour time (or lunch), and we had had a series of meal and snacks on the plane. So we went out for a light meal before bed. We stopped at Food Traboule, which deftly combines two Lyonnais traditions.

The first is the traboule, a series of secret or non-obvious passageways which honeycomb the city. They developed in the Middle Ages as covered routes for deliverymen to bring fresh products across town without being exposed to the elements (or thieves). They doubled as covert smuggling routes (or for liaisons of a sort) from then on. The second is the tradition of the independent chef. Put those two together, and about five years ago some aspiring chefs bought row houses, knocked down adjoining walls, and opened Food Traboule. You enter into a series of rooms with single-chef stalls, preparing a limited menu which you order directly from the chef. Sit wherever you want, and order whatever you want and pay the chef directly; waiters drop by to get you drinks from a central bar. It’s a cross between a Michelin star restauarant and a Mall food court! The beauty is you get to try out new concepts from up-and-coming chefs, cheaply and easily, without commiting to a full meal or menu. Just in the room we visited, you could find a stall with South Asian-Middle Eastern fusion, another with French gourmet hot dogs, and a third with French-Mexican mixes.

The next morning, we went out to join the French breakfast tradition: an espresso with a croissant or baguette on the way to work. We found many cafes did not open until 8:30 or 9:00 (when does work start?). The fresh pastry was delicious, the coffee strong but very good. After breakfast we got in some sight-seeing, visiting the main Cathedral for Lyon, then taking a funicular line up to the newish (19th Century) Basilica Notre-Dame de Fourvière (with Romanesque and Byzantine flourishes). It resides next to the well-preserved Roman amphitheater, each a unique architectural structure with bold views of the city below.

They wouldn’t let me drive the funicular.

Now we normally eat one large meal a day (around 2:00 pm), with a small snack in the morning or evening. The French eat lunch between 12:00 and 2:00 pm, and don’t start dinner before 7:00 pm, so there was no way to square that with our style. We decided to go all in at 12:00, so we tromped in to the legendary bouchon Chabert et fils. There are many origin stories for the term bouchon, but the concept is firmly rooted in the silk-weaving story. Wives of the silk workers banded together to buy cheap meat parts (think brains, tripe, sweetbreads) from local butchers, then slow-cooked them into hearty meals for their husbands to return to after work. Eventually this evolved into a culinary tradition of family-owned businesses featuring a daily prix-fix (set price) menu of such hearty fare, a tradition which continues to this day.

As starters (entree here, a matter of some confusion for Americans), we chose a warm goat cheese pastry and a cold pâte pastry with a tart side salad:

Next, we had a pike quenelle ( a creamy pastry) and garlic flank steak with hash browned potatoes:

Note the crawfish sauce on the Quenelle!

For dessert, a Guignol (named after a Lyonnias marionette character, but this dessert is a puffy cake with flamed crème and candied oranges) and a chocolate cake, both drenched in cream:

With espresso to cleanse the palate:

A statue of the Sun-King (Louis XIV) with appropriate backdrop:

In the Place Bellecour, a huge central plaza

The city has twenty Michelin-star restaurants, but more importantly, thousands more excellent places to eat which draw upon the unique culinary history and the impressive modern example of chef Paul Bocuse. You don’t have to spend a fortune to eat well, and the fine cuisine does NOT come with a side order of attitude one might encounter elsewhere (at least in our experience). My mauvais français was warmly received as an attempt at communication, and every waiter seemed to know more than enough anglais. As we like to say, when in Lyon, make sure and wear your eatin’ pants!

The unbearable lightness of . . . bollocks

What could this mean? Old friends will recall I have a longstanding love affair with the English language. Being born an native English-speaker is a gift; it is an easy language to learn, but a difficult one to master. It is rich, so rich, because it borrows from everywhere and everything, and keeps growing and changing. But not everything is new and better. My daughter liked to complain about “new and improved” products as a redundancy, since a new product should always be improved and an improved product was by definition new. For my part, I fought the good fight against “impact” as a verb (because one hadn’t learned the difference between “effect” and”affect”), enormity (which means ONLY a great and evil thing, not large), and fulsome (which is fake, not real) praise. I can hear my friends and associates chuckling: the fight goes on.

Yet the degradation continues. “Fake news” would only mean something if it wasn’t news, that is, not new. If it’s false, it is simply a lie. Treason is a crime with very specific circumstances, and one should not claim it if one doesn’t know what they are (a declaration of war and two witnesses are among the criteria). The same goes for an “insurrection.” Racial equity is a new, friendly-sounding buzz-phrase on the left, which points to equal representation in outcomes. I doubt anyone would support it for their local NBA team.

Politicians have been masters in abusing language for a long time, and it has become a high (or is that low?) art form today. I waited for then-President Trump to tweet that Joe Biden was “a known bibliophile” hoping no one thought too much about what the phase really meant (Trump wasn’t smart enough to know the word, and Biden isn’t one, anyway). Maybe next time (shudder). Politicians brought us such wonders as “that statement is no longer operative” (as in, “we lied”), “mistakes were made” (“we were wrong”), and “it depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is” (He “did have sex with that woman.”).

But many normal folks engage in the same sophistry (look it up). They share and re-tweet garbage because they agree with it, without stopping to think: is it true? Is it a dodge? Or better yet–what does it say about me when I endorse it? And so it goes. I can’t count the number of social media arguments I have been induced to engage in because the language was so indistinct (I know, it’s a personal failing: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!)

The effects (there’s that word) are many and not harmless. English is beautiful because it is so adaptable and has so many shades of meaning. This started to dawn on me when I first studied German and French, but really hit home as I learned Spanish. I asked my Spanish teacher what the equivalent was for the verb “to wait”? “Esperar,” he said. “To hope for?” “Esperar.” “To expect?” “Esperar.” Yes there are other Spanish words, but the general usage is toward a single verb. In English, even a child can express the very significant differences between “I wait for parents”, “I hope for parents”, and “I expect parents.”

Today, if you’re not anti-racist, you’re racist (from the left), while the right has taken to calling everything “grooming.” Unprecedented is an adjective which apparently means only “I haven’t heard of it.” I have yet to meet a person who would defend the degraded, modern usage of “love”: I would love to do so, if only to impact their vocabulary (ugh, it hurt to write that). Sloppy speaking or writing is a sign of poor thinking. It is the close cousin of vulgarity, where a rude term is used strictly to shock and offend.

Oh, and the title? It’s a riff on the novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being, a philosophical story which also touches briefly on linguistic abuse. I originally used bulls!t, but it seemed to me to be a bit too vulgar. We’ve watched a lot of British crime dramas lately, and I like their use of bollocks (literally, testicles), which connotes complete rubbish or nonsense. I strongly recommend using it. You’ll affect your opponents, and no one would dare give you fulsome praise. And you’ll avoid the enormity of disfiguring the language of Shakespeare, Yeats, and Eliot.

Advice for new or aspiring lakeside expats

The gradual ebbing of the Covid pandemic, the continued retirement of the baby boomer generation, and the abiding allure of lakeside all conspire to one end: more expats are showing up once again in Chapala, Ajijic, and other communities lakeside. I realize my blog may not be the easiest to search for what I have written in the past, so I decided to recount and update my thoughts for those who are recently arrived. And here they are, in no particular order:

Expats have been coming here for decades. The first ones were real pioneers: no internet, one long-distance phone in the plaza, as many horses as cars on the streets, few imported American products, no real pizza (the horror!). So they came to a sleepy Mexican fishing village which got overrun sometimes on weekends and holidays with Tapatios (people from Guadalajara). Now it’s crowded (to them) all the time, there are Gringos everywhere, and even US-style politics intrudes. The old-timers don’t like it. Try to be understanding of them, because in many cases they can’t–or don’t want to–just pick up and move. But here and now is not what it once was, and they miss it.
Which leads to online boards and FaceBook groups. People here are friendly. People online are not. It’s a phenomenon the world over; my wife calls it “the angry guy in his underwear sitting alone at home and yelling at his computer.” Only it’s not just guys. Just like ordinary people, when alone in their cars, act outrageously because they feel anonymous, people online get snippy in ways they never would in person. So ignore them. But do learn how to search for things on whatever online source you choose before you ask the same question three-thousand gringos have asked.
Like anywhere, the cultural and political and ethnic mix at lakeside is changing. There have been past waves of arrivals: originally many artistic types, then Viet Nam vets and hippies, then baby boomer retirees and now even young families. Mexico’s middle class, a relatively recent development, is also discovering both lakeside and retirement, leading to more permanent Tapatios and Chilangos (Mexico City folks). They come for a variety of reasons, and stay for the clima (weather), cultura (friendly culture), and comida (food). All really are welcome here. Some folks still think everybody here is just like them, but that’s just because they don’t socialize widely enough. Whatever your background/interest/politics, you’ll find like-minded friends here.
All those arrivals highlight a glaring lack of infrastructure. Things like banks and hospitals and restaurants and internet service providers have grown amazingly, but water and power and roads have not kept up. Mexico is not known for its infrastructure planning, and lakeside is still peripheral enough (to government) and growing so fast as to have problems. None of these problems are catastrophic, and eventually enough Mexicans-with-connections will live here to force change. But in the meantime, your community well may run dry, or the power may be intermittent, the internet abysmally slow in the afternoon, the traffic lights un-timed. It’s Mexico’s way of telling you to slow down and enjoy the view. If that really bothers you, oh well, but don’t think you can change Mexico.
The price of things is a source of constant argument here. Not the actual price, but whether that price is cheap or expensive. If you come from an expensive city (like we did), everything is cheaper. If you come from a small town, house prices may shock you. If you insist on buying only American-branded products specially imported to lakeside, you might blanch after doing the math (as a quick rule, it’s twenty Mexican pesos to the dollar, or drop a digit and divide by two: 100 pesos becomes 10, divide by two equals five dollars). Remember, the Mexican brand may be identical, or may not, but it will always be less expensive. Expats get into endless (and in my opinion needless) arguments about whether to tip like NOB (North of the Border), or whether to support WalMart or the neighborhood tienda, or visiting the tianguis or the Gringo market. Here’s a clue: do as the Mexicans do. They don’t argue about such things. You do you. Life is hard enough that one should not waste one’s time arguing about its flavors.
Which is easy to do because the weather here is so amazing. Now those old-timers will swear it was better before, but they are getting older and more temperature sensitive. I used to run in the sleet and freezing rain NOB. After five years here, I shiver when I encounter anything below sixty degrees Fahrenheit. It happens. The average monthly temperature has not gone above a high of 87° or below a low of 41°. The rain falls mostly at night and mostly during a rainy season from June to October. We are at mile-high elevation (think Denver) and the latitude of Hawaii. This area should be a high desert plateau (like Phoenix), but the mix of the tropical latitude and lake-effect create a lush, mild, constant micro-climate. Even nearby Guadalajara is more extreme (hotter in summer, colder in winter, rainier in the season). Is it perfect? Not if you like hot humid beach weather, or Fall, or cold clean air. But it is ideal to be outside as much as you like. I tell friends that we just don’t have WEATHER here: I never think about the temperature or precipitation before leaving the casa. And even when it does get hot (never humid), it yields every night. Here’s the data:

And you can see why some expats go on vacation in May; it’s nice many other places, and it’s the only time it ever gets “hot” here

Lakeside is neither Florida, nor Arizona nor Texas. Some new expats may be fooled into thinking–by the sizable expat population–that here is much like those other places. That thinking will leave you surprised and annoyed. Mexico is a very different place: give it a chance and you may fall in love with it. But if you expect The Villages with tacos, you’ll be disappointed.
Mexicans lakeside are friendly in a small-town Mexican way. They greet strangers on the street and when entering a store or restaurant. Learn the proper use of “buenos dias, buenos tardes, buenos noches” and use it. And of course gracias and por favor. It’s not much, but it’s an attempt to accommodate yourself to the culture, and the Mexican people will welcome it.
To learn or not to learn Spanish? Another frequent expat point of debate. The old-timers didn’t have a choice: learn Spanish or be very lonely. Now there are many vendors who are bilingual, and specialists who will escort you through anything from a hospital visit to the dreaded encounter with the Mexican government bureaucracy. Mastering a new language is hard for everyone over the age of five, with the exception of a few people who have a knack. It’s especially hard for those of us getting on in years. But you should make an attempt. There are resources to help you whatever your learning style. You may never be fluent, but if you practice, you will be able to communicate, and the Mexicans you talk to will help you, and appreciate your effort.
Unlike the States and Canada, Mexico’s laws and style of regulation descend from a Spanish inheritance. I like to describe Mexican law as “the pirate code” as in, “more of a guideline than a rule.” Bureaucracy is a fine art here, and petty bureaucrats seem to enjoy being exacting. And there are ways around everything if money or connections are involved.
I think the concept of time is the single biggest difference between Mexico and cultures NOB. Life moves slower in Mexico. It’s not efficient, it’s not cost effective, but it is pleasant if you move with it. Work hours are variable. There are breaks (siestas) for naps or chores or visits with the family during the work-day. Reservations are approximate; parties start about two hours after they start, and last forever. It’s not that Mexicans are never in a hurry: watch out for Tapatios on the carretera during the weekend: driving in non-existent lanes or even on the bike path to pass traffic! It is more like if you’re NOT in a hurry, don’t BE in a hurry. You will get there when you get there; the work will get done when it gets done. This can be frustrating to type-A, can-do, “time is a-wasting,” time-is-money gringos. Learn the concept of mañana. It literally means both tomorrow and morning, but figuratively means everything from “just after midnight” to someday or even never. And that’s ok.
About that traffic. Another quick start to an expat argument is the traffic around these parts. Mention it, and old-timers will remind you when there were no traffic lights. City folk (like me) will chuckle: you call this traffic? Others lament the twenty or forty or sixty minutes to get across town . . . in a small fishing village. Here’s the thing: We have too few roads and too many cars, especially when the tourists come in for holidays and the snowbirds visit. There are no good places to put more roads. Traffic lights only work to facilitate traffic flow if (1) they are timed and coordinated and (2) people obey traffic laws. Neither happens in Mexico. So for example in San Antonio Tlayacapan, people complain and lights go in, causing back-ups, so the lights go intermittent or get taken down: rinse and repeat. Timing and Coordinating the lights? See my comment about infrastructure. Obeying traffic laws? See my comment about the pirate code. Your best bet is to slow down (unless you’re really in a hurry, and ask yourself “why?”), and either turn up your air conditioning, or roll down your windows and people watch.
Mexico is as diverse a country and culture as the States or Canada: go and visit it! There are excellent low-cost airlines and terrific interstate and intercity, cheap-but-luxurious bus lines. Drive the autopistas (toll roads called cuotas by the gringos, but that just means “tolls”), which are somewhat expensive (remembering the relativity therein) but safe and fast. Most people know the Atlantic and Pacific resorts, but there are natural wonders (Copper Canyons, Barrancas del Cobre, rivaling the Grand Canyon or Morelia for the Monarch butterflies), Colonial cities (Guanajuato, Querrétaro, Puebla), arts centers (San Miguel de Allende) and of course, the big enchilada: Ciudad de Mexico (just México to the Mexicans, which leads to all those confusing road signs and airport monitor listings). There are guided tours, or just find a gringo with more experience and travel with them. Lakeside is great, but it is even better as a base to explore everywhere else in Mexico.
Travel around Mexico? What about all the crime, the cartels, Narcos? Let’s get real. I wrote here and again here about the criminal threat to gringo expats and tourists. The gist of it is: if you don’t use, buy or sell drugs, if you don’t stay out all night partying and drinking, if you don’t flash cash or I-phones or jewelry, if you don’t get drunk in public, the chances of falling prey to the cartels is minimal. Not zero, but unlikely. Do you do those things at home? Probably not, because they are unsafe; same here. The data show Mexico is no more dangerous than Japan for American expats and visitors. If you want to be extra safe, consult the US State Department travel advisory page here. Pay no attention to the general warning (“Reconsider travel”), it is boilerplate language intended for newbie travelers who think a US passport is some kind of international travel protection. Go to the state or region page for where you want to travel, and read the section on restrictions for US governmental personnel. This highlights the specific places (like towns or roads or neighborhoods) which the US government wants its employees to avoid because there is evidence of recent violence there. They are more cautious than most visitors need to be, but it’s an excellent resource. The most common crime problems locally are petty thefts and purse snatchings. Which doesn’t make for much of a TV series.
Speaking of governments, Mexico has one, and you are not welcome to engage in its politics. The language is right there in Article 33 of the Mexican constitution. Now you would have to be a pretty big, public nuisance to warrant deportation, but Mexico is especially sensitive to foreign pressure or influence (invaded six times), so leave your political opinions about Mexico to yourself or your immediate gringo buddies. It’s only polite (educado) and Mexicans are always educado. “But wait, I’m a Mexican citizen” some old-timer will object! Ok, technically (and legally) you can vote and engage in politics, but here’s the larger point. Even if you’re a dual citizen, or here legally as a residente permanante or temporal, you’re still not a Mexican (unless you or your family was originally from Mexico, and you’re a returnee). Residente is a legal status, and remember my comment about Mexican law (it could change any old time). I’m not engaging in the favorite expat argument about whether we’re “visitors” or “residents” or “guests.” Whatever you want to call expats here, we can enjoy the culture and be welcomed into it, but we are not “of” it and never will be. It is a fact worth keeping in mind.
Some people claim to have come to Mexico to escape NOB politics; this may be true in a general sense, but I have yet to meet anyone who specifically said “if so-and-so is President, I will move to Mexico” and then done it. There is normally something else involved, and the political part is making a virtue signal out of necessity. That said, it used to be (I am told) that NOB politics rarely raised its ugly head here, but now it is much more common. Not overwhelmingly like it is NOB, but still enough to make things uncomfortable at times. Based on nothing more than opinions I have heard, expats lakeside used to be very liberal and/or libertarian, but now there is a growing number of more traditional and conservative types (I’m in the latter groups: forgive me for I have sinned). One liberal friend told me she didn’t know any conservatives locally; I re-introduced myself (much to her chagrin). My wife likes to say “you never notice us because we’re just quieter.” It’s a good thing to be politically active, to defend your ideas and support your candidate, party, or ideology back home. Just don’t be a bore. I guess I agree with the old-timers who say “if you want to be like that, stay NOB; you’ll have lots of company.”
One thing you’ll notice a lot of here at lakeside, especially during snowbird season (November-April) is Canadians/Canadiennes. Most Americans only occasionally run into people from Canada (my daughter, when young, insisted it should be called Canadia), unless you are from a border state. Down here, a significant portion of the seasonal expats are from Canada; I would estimate about forty percent. So you’ll get a chance to mingle with two different groups/cultures: Mexican and Canadian!
The reason so many Canadian expats are snowbirds is due to the peculiarities of Canada’s Health Care System, which is Provincial, and which I’m told requires some time in Canada every year. For the rest of us, it is good to know that lakeside has a surfeit of clinics, labs, and even hospitals, while Guadalajara (under an hour away) is Mexico’s center for medical training. It is easy to find a well-trained and credentialed English-speaking doctor, with a full range of services in support. Prices are much less than in the States (almost anywhere is cheaper than the States), but costs are rising as local Mexican health providers determine what price gringos will pay for health care. There is nothing unethical or sinister about that: you’re getting an excellent service customized (language, etc.) to your needs, and you can afford to pay more for it. Free Mexican health care is available and is worth the price you pay (read that twice). Take care with groups offering to bill Medicare or US health care providers back in the States: while there is some interest in the US Congress to authorize a pilot project to permit such coverage, it remains illegal as of now. There are big differences in how Mexican health care functions: what nurses do and how they are trained (more basic in my opinion), who can share health care data (my wife and I do all our visits jointly, and we own our records), and the need to pay before you leave the hospital (or you don’t get to leave). Continuing health problems remain the number one reason expats eventually return NOB.
Property and liability insurance are available just like NOB. All insurance decisions are matters of personal risk, but be aware that what is covered and how it is covered may be different here. Some expat home owners do not have property or liability insurance. Why not? For one a casa of brick and concrete is not going to burn down, and we haven’t had a significant earthquake since the nineteenth century. Another reason is Mexicans don’t rush to sue (remember the legal system?), which is also why property owners who have claims denied by insurance companies have a difficult time taking it to the courts. Yes, you must have automobile insurance, but after that it’s up to you and your personal views on risk. If you choose to get insurance, have a long talk with your agent about what is covered, what it takes to file a claim, and what are all the exceptions.
That property you may/may not insure is a key factor in whether you stay as an expat or return home. Everyone agrees that renting to experience different neighborhoods and home styles is the right way to go. We and some of our friends bought right away, but I provide this warning: trained professional on a closed course; do not try this on your own! There are simple choices you have to make about indoor/outdoor living, numbers of visitors/bedrooms, whether to walk or have a car/where to park it, whether it feels too hot or too cold TO YOU, western-exposed windows, garden/pet space, even colors vs. heat retention. You’re unlikely to get it all correct in the first try, so take your time.
Choosing a neighborhood is a fine art. Some expats head directly for gated communities called condominios. They offer better security, some rules (quiet hours, tree heights) and amenities (club houses, pools, gardening of common areas, parking), some cost-sharing and dues. Other expats, especially old-timers, deride condominios as NOB living, shorn of any contact with real Mexicans. Yet the two condominos we have lived in had as many Mexican owners as gringos. Living in the villages is an authentic expat experience, complete with cohetes, dogs, roosters, cattle, and the family next door who decides to open an evento (party-place) on weekends. Living in the village is less expensive and still nice, the condominios more comfortable to newcomers. The important thing is to know what you like before you settle in.
Some lakeside expats appear to treat trips to Guadalajara like adventures to a distant, confusing place, and try to avoid it. Or they just go to the Costco, Home Depot, or a mall (yes, they have many). I suggest visiting regularly, as Mexico’s Second City has so much to offer: museums, sports (futbol, beisbol, and baloncesto), a very nice zoo, theaters and opera and plays and restaurants! Ask friends for suggestions, get a place to stay and investigate the city; it will be rewarding.
What goes for Guadalajara goes for all of Jalisco. It’s the home of Tequila in the eponymous village, mariachi music, guachimontones (conical pyramids) and Charrería (Mexican rodeo). Jalisco is to Mexico as Texas is the United States. Jalisco is the more conservative, more Catholic heart of Mexico, with more liberal, more cosmopolitan Guadalajara as its urban center (think Austin). The things people think of as quintessentially Mexican are de Jalisco. Heck, the state’s tourism motto is “Jalisco es Mexico!”
One major difference from NOB is the police (Policia). Like up north, there are several types: municipal police, traffic police, state police, federal police, and the new Guardia Nacional. Again like up north, they have different authorities and jurisdictions. Pay is a major impediment to professionalism: the average monthly salary for a police officer in Mexico is $20,000 MXP, or about $500 USD! Some make half that. Equipment and training are spotty. There is the constant threat of drug traffickers and other criminals corrupting police either through graft or threats: “plato o plomo“, that is silver (graft) or lead (a bullet). Is it any wonder police look to petty corruption by requesting bribes for minor traffic violations? Some locals and expats swear by refusing to give a bribe, arguing it prolongs the corruption and the police will generally give in in the end. Others relate tales of cars being towed or a few hundred pesos “solving” the problem. How you choose to deal with it is up to you. For starters, don’t drive a car with foreign plates, do get a Mexican driver’s license, and learn the unique rules of the road. Many of the stories of these run-ins with police begin with not wearing a seat-belt, talking on a cell phone, having expired tags, making an illegal left turn, etc. Know what not to do and avoid the problem.
Driving need not be a nightmare. Download the Waze (pronounced Wayze in English, Wah-zay in Spanish), which marries Google maps with real time traffic/police/pothole alerts. We have navigated through backstreets and around gridlock like locals using it. Trust the Waze! Drive slower than normal, as anything can and will happen on the carretera: people and things falling out of trucks, cattle in the highway, topes (speed-bumps) without warning signs or warning signs without topes, scooters passing on any side, pedestrians scurrying across major highways (what do you think all those roadside shrines are for?), five lanes in the space marked for three, even cars coming slowly the wrong way! You name it, we’ve seen it in Mexico. Mexico uses fewer manned police speed-traps, but does make use of speed cameras which (in Jalisco) must have a warning sign placed before the camera. So there are many such signs, with fewer cameras, and one quickly learns where you need to slow down, as the cameras don’t move around very often. So yield and go with the flow, and don’t be in a hurry. And remember, if anyone is seriously hurt in a traffic accident, all the drivers involved are going first to jail until the policia determine who is at fault. So settle on the spot if you can, know the name and number of your insurance agent, and be careful out there.
How have I gotten this far and not mentioned Lago de Chapala, the lake itself? It’s beautiful and is responsible for our microclimate. Expats get into an annual argument about how clean/dirty it is. Someone drags out an environmental group’s analysis claiming it’s so polluted it’s a crime against humanity. Someone else pulls out testing data showing it’s no more polluted than most (beaches/lakes) in (California/New York). Like most things, the truth is somewhere in between. Here’s the thing: the lake is the main source of drinking water for the millions of people in Guadalajara. Yes, the water gets processed along the way, but if it was that bad to start with, there would be plenty of seriously sick people in Guad (yes, gringos call it that). Mexican sewer systems have never been designed to withstand the deluges of the rainy season, so during that season, overflow goes straight into the lake. And that means near the towns and villages there are higher, temporary concentrations of coliform bacteria (the kind that make you sick) during the rainy season. Locals know when to go in the water (they fish in it, etc.) and when not. There are marinas with sail boats, some jet-skis, and an expat kayak club. Some people avoid the water because of abandoned fences, poles, etc. that lurk under the waves; caution is advised.
In addition to the healthy climate, we have abundant, healthy fresh foods options. A friend warned me–at the start of the pandemic–that borders might be shut and food become scarce. I responded that we’re the place that sends food elsewhere, so we’ll have plenty to eat if we can’t export it! Yes, you need to wash your fruits & vegetables from the market, although some expats say they never have. And yes, sometimes a fresh salad will give you some, shall we say, digestive discomfort. But in general, you can get really fresh meat, cheese, fruits, vegetables, and of course, tortillas for very good prices (by any standard).
Speaking of food, lakeside is a veritable Epcot Center of choices. Ok, maybe a bad comparison. How about the world’s largest food court? Still not right. Suffice it to say we have an incredible number of restaurants focused on expats, and you can find almost any type of cuisine. The cautions? We have only a few amazing, high-end places. Restaurants change hours, staffs, and locations all the time. This means the restaurant that was nearby and great last month may be down this month and better again but far-away two months from now. It’s a very variable food environment, but you can get everything from pizza to sushi to BBQ to burgers to Indian to Chinese to German/French/Italian to Argentine. Even Mexican!
Expats are quite involved in the local community beyond eating out at restaurants every day. There are many clubs and too many charitable groups to name, but I know there is one that will float your boat. Get involved. Mexicans view the family as the source of charity, and that leaves many gaps, so this is a welcome way expats can bring a positive aspect of NOB culture with them.
All those charitable groups doesn’t stop there from being many people looking for donations on the street. Begging in Mexico isn’t looked down on in the way I felt it was NOB: it’s just viewed here as a fact of life. Beggars in general are not aggressive, and there is no need to fear them. Some people hang out in public places to help you back out of a parking place, or to cross the street. Others stand at topes (where traffic slows) or outside of grocery stores, selling candies or hand-made trinkets. Feel free to buy from them, give to them, or just greet them, but not judge them, por favor!
Likewise, you’ll see many street dogs or roof dogs. The latter are a form of security, as Mexicans (mostly) view dogs as working animals, not pets. The former may or may not be on their own–some locals let their dogs wander during the day. Which leads to all the dog carcasses one sees on the carretera to Guadalajara. There are very active dog (and other pet) shelters run by expats; they even export dogs to the States! But dog-lovers may find the Mexican approach to dogs (and its results) challenging.
That carretera to Guadalajara runs past our international airport, which is between lakeside and Guad and only thirty minutes away (if you drive like the proverbial bat-outta-hell). It’s officially Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla Aeropuerto Internacional, but GDL for short. You can catch non-stops to hubs at Dallas (American), Houston (United), and Atlanta (Delta), along with others to Los Angeles and Chicago. GDL is a small airport, albeit Mexico’s largest for freight. It is due for a major renovation and expansion in the next few years. As a tip, there is a secure parking lot at the airport, and other park-n-ride options near it: we used both many times with no issues.

Speaking of issues, one which always surprises new expats is noise. Mexico is a noisy country. As I write this, I’m being serenaded by gardeners employing the country’s favorite musical instrument: the leaf blower. Here it is known just as the blower, because it is used for all forms of blowing: leaves, clothes, trash, insects, animals, other blowers, or just because. Mexicans love to set off fireworks (cohetes) for any reason. Lakeside retains small farms and indigenous properties where animals live side-by-side with their owners, in the village. You’ll hear dogs (of course), roosters, birds, cows, horses and the occasional chupacabra (Ok, I made the last one up . . . I think). Locals celebrate with long and loud parties (fiestas) that may be held at an evento or at home, complete with bands and dancing and singing to the wee hours. Even Mother’s Day has a tradition here of serenading Mom by having a band play songs under her window . . .at the crack of dawn. There are laws about noise, but they are more honored in the breach. Either get used to it, buy earplugs, or get invited and join in. All three work equally well.
Finally, speaking of holidays and fiestas, here’s a tip: get a calendar, one with all the Mexican federal holidays AND all the Saints’ days. “Why?” you ask. Mexicans take their holidays seriously and they celebrate all the federal holidays, Catholic holidays, and local Saint’s days (for example, the parish’s patron Saint). If you don’t know what they are, you’ll always be the one asking “what was with all the cohetes last night?” or “where did all the traffic come from?” or “why is the street closed?” Here’s a pro-tip: for the Catholic holidays, Mexicans often practice a novena, which is supposed to be nine days of prayer and fasting leading up the the celebration of the Saint. In Mexico it has become nine days of fireworks, or bands, or whatever leading up to the Saint’s day. So also know the names of local parishes and plot the novena out on your calendar. For example, San Andrés is Ajijic’s main parish, and his feast is November 3oth. The national (Mexican) feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe is December 12th. Christmas (La Navidad) is December 25th, and Three Kings’ Day (Tres Reyes, when presents arrive in Mexico) is January 6th. Plot that out on your calendar, and you’ll soon realize there are non-stop parties (and many business closures) from American Thanksgiving through the end of the NFL regular season (to use secular America holidays as an example). Consider yourself warned!

I hope you enjoyed reading this stream-of-consciousness review as much as I did writing it. As always, there are way more details hidden away in blog posts and through authoritative websites. But I hope this gives you a flavor of expat life–if you’re just considering it–or eases your arrival if you’ve already made the jump.