I have often cited the amazing weather here lakeside. As I ponder the live news and weather from WTOP in DC, I sit on my veranda and enjoy bountiful sunshine over the lake. It’s early morning in winter, so I have to wear sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt. It drops below 50 degrees (F) at night here, but quickly recovers to the 70s. My morning coffee outfit will return to shorts and short-sleeve t-shirt . . . shortly.
I say this not to gloat (ok, a little gloat, a gloat-ee perhaps) but to introduce a surrender on my part. For years I have been telling people we don’t have heating or air-conditioning in our house, because we don’t need it. My dear wife bought an electric heating pad for the bed, which she installs for the winter, but which we rarely ever use. Local friends have warned me that eventually I would feel otherwise and want heating and air-conditioning. I resisted. Some cited climate change, and while the summers have become a little hotter and the winters a little colder, the data say nothing more than that: a little. Others were more persuasive: “you’re getting older, and the temperature will feel more extreme.” This was an inevitability staring me in the face.
I already noticed that “my blood had thinned” when we returned to the States annually for Thanksgiving. Back in the day, I dodged dinosaurs while running in shorts and t-shirts in howling DC snowstorms. I took perverse delight in running on “black-flag” heat-warning days, when breathing outside was allegedly equivalent to chain-smoking a pack of unfiltered cigarettes (nobody who has ever smoked an unfiltered cigarette agrees with this comparison, BTW). But now I shivered in the 40s, snugly wrapped in multiple layers of fleece and down and anything else I could find. Yes, I had hard evidence that age was turning me into a weather wimp.
One technique we used to avoid the warmest, driest part of the year here (April-June) was to travel. Late Spring is an ideal time to head to Europe, before the crowds and heat settle there. Alas, as Don Henley crooned, “But there’re just so many summers. And just so many springs.” What to do when our world travel plans diminish and end?
I could wait and see. Perhaps the adjustment will be gradual enough I will accommodate it with some extra cool margaritas in summer, sweatshirts in winter. Perhaps. Or I could prepare for it. Those who know me already know which I chose. So, we’re putting air conditioning units into the bedrooms. They are capable of heat or cooling, and sufficient to ensure a good, comfortable night’s rest regardless of the ambient conditions. Of course, it can’t be that simple, can it?
We already max-out electricity use, and adding air conditioning will push us to the very top of the spectrum. To explain, electric power in Mexico is a state-run monopoly. The most basic usage is practically free, and accommodates the average poor Mexican household with a small fridge, a television, and a few electric lights (oh, and cell phones, always cell phones). A secondary level doubles that usage, covering the majority of Mexican families who might also have an electric appliance or two. The third level triples the usage and costs, and this is where most gringos pay, owing to the plethora of electric devices we have. Finally, there is a penalty rate for extreme usage, called DAC, which doubles or triples the total cost. You enter into DAC by average use exceeding a standard for a set period of time, and stay in it (thus fined) until the average dips below the limit. Now that sounds horrible, except that even in high gringo usage, our monthly electric bill runs USD $75. It’s insanely high by local standards, but I’ll bet most readers would gladly trade bills with me!
Adding electric heating/cooling would undoubtedly push us permanently into DAC. And we live in a place with year-round, abundant, strong sunlight. So we’ll be responsible and install eight solar panels and a whole-house power wall back-up system at the same time, which also eliminates the need for future blog posts about the occasional power outages which force us to play beat-the-clock with our fridge and freezer.
I consider it being prepared, but it is fair to say I am giving in. Time stands still for no one, but the local power utility stands still all the time during outages. Better to go solar, add a battery, and a little heat and cooling now. Maybe it’s not a surrender. Maybe it’s just a tactical retreat. Or even I’m attacking the problem from a different direction! Whatever. As Mr. Buffet said, “but there’s booze in the blender, and soon it will render . . .”
Every once in a while, I see a comment about expats or just regular tourists engaging in the evil behavior of . . . over-tipping. Tipping by visitors (permanent or otherwise) is a place where cultures engage, with predictable controversy. Now for the record, I support large tips. I have history here. Long ago, my mother was a waitress at clubs like The Elks, and she earned only tips. Dad was a cop, and we were a lower middle-class family, basically one missed paycheck from poor. So those nights when my mom came home sad or even crying about a table of wealthy local businessmen leaving pocket change as a tip made an impression. We tip 20%. More if we like the service, or if it’s for breakfast (the work required of the staff is the same, but breakfast entrees are usually much cheaper). And we round up. I don’t tell other people how to tip, as I don’t have their experience, and they don’t have mine. I do call bull*bleep* about some of the complaints/justifications I hear about tipping.
One complaint I hear is that one shouldn’t over-tip because it raises prices. No one has yet explained to me what magic economic effect would cause this, beyond the fact the waiter has additional money to spend. If that were the case, if we don’t tip at all, will prices start dropping? There are studies which show tipping culture in general reduces prices, because the business owner has less cost (the diner is in effect replacing part of the cost of a salary). There is nothing to support the assertion over-tipping raises prices overall. Nada.
Maybe don’t over-tip because it makes the waitstaff expect higher tips, and they’ll provide some others with worse service if that person doesn’t share your over-tipping style? I am unsure why it is my responsibility to enable another diner’s tipping style. And are the servers at your favorite restaurant that petty? They don’t just do their job, short of a few examples where a really outrageous client gets “special (negative) treatment”?
Don’t over-tip because it disrespects local culture? Okay, time to come clean. I often hear this from people who railed on about embracing different cultures when they were back home, but now that the shoe is on the other foot, they’re saying the visitor has to adopt the local culture. As a visitor, it’s always a dilemma about how much local culture to adopt, to tolerate, or to reject. I wouldn’t overtip a waiter in France because it might offend them, thus defeating the intent of my trying to recognize their superior service. There I adopt the rounding up tradition for tipping. If I was visiting the Chinese countryside, I would not adopt the older locals’ habit of spitting; I would tolerate it, not making a big deal about it. And I won’t even speak of some local customs in other places that any decent human being would abhor. There is no hard-and-fast rule to one’s engagement with foreign cultures while traveling. Certainly as an expat one is more immersed in the culture and must be more aware. There are endless expat debates about paying mordita (bribes) as a part of local culture, versus working to change that unfortunate part of the culture.
To my mind, tipping is more of a personal choice than a cultural concern. In that regard, arguing about tipping is like arguing about flavors: “I like chocolate better than vanilla”. . . “No way, vanilla is way better than chocolate!” I don’t think less of those who tip less, unless of course they offer a poor excuse for doing so. I don’t care how others feel about my tipping, unless someone tries to tell me why I’m wrong.
As an expat, I write frequently about how much we enjoy this lifestyle: living in a different culture (a less expensive and less acquisitive one), still full of new things to learn, new people to meet, new places to see. We know it’s not for everyone, and that’s fine. If we didn’t love it, we wouldn’t still be so happy after eight-and-a-half years as expats!
This is not one of those times. We recently had a few, shall we say, challenging experiences I wish to relate. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m going to complain, but rather, shed light on something common to expats that may go missing in the glossy pages of International Living or the TikTok feeds sent to you about the glories of expatdom.
Late last year, for absolutely no valid reason at all, my state of Jalisco announced it was invalidating all old licence plates and replacing them with new ones. Actually, they did state the new ones had a QR code embedded in them, but some of us already had such codes on our old plates. The good news was the turn-in and replacement would happen over the course of the entire year, in an orderly fashion (right!) based on the last digit of your current plates. The better news (from the government’s perspective) was you could pay in advance online for your new plates, your required annual registration, and your emissions inspection, all bundled together at a discounted total price. It was good news for the government because virtually no one went and got emission inspections, so now the government at least got you to pay extra, whether you ever went and got your emissions inspection or not. I give them credit: that part was clever.
The bad news for the rest of us was the “orderly fashion” turned out not to be so. People due to change plates early in the year reported long delays, because the new plates weren’t ready to be issued yet. The website we were supposed to use didn’t work at first, then it only worked with FireFox browser (who knew FireFox was still around?) Or you could go to the clothing shop next door to the recaudadora (DMV) office–and no, I am NOT making this up–and the woman there could use her desktop to make your appointment for a small fee.
Others reported a quintessential problem of Mexican bureaucracy: the petty bureaucrat at the recaudadora. The government specified what you needed to bring in: proof of residence, proof of identification, proof you paid online, and your original factura (the original sales receipt for your car, which passes for a title down here). That last document is a real challenge: there are many types, based on whether you bought new or used, and you’re never supposed to have it in your car, as the paper itself proves ownership: if someone steals your car with the factura in it, they can claim it’s theirs!
Those necessary documents are pretty straightforward: here’s where the pettiness comes in. Original and one copy, or just original? Copy on both sides, or one per page? How many forms of identification? Copies in black and white or color (the latter being considered a sign in Mexico of potential forgery, so . . .)? I guarantee you, whatever set of copies you have, they’re incorrect.
I let the matter rest for most of the year, until I saw about one-quarter of the cars on the road with new plates. Then I saw some online posts that the system was more regular now, so I figured it was time to bite the bullet. I downloaded a Chrome Extension to run FireFox, accessed the website, made an appointment, and made all the appropriate copies (or so I thought).
But wait, ¡hay mas! as they say down here. We arrived for our appointment to find that citas (reservations) are just a thing, not real. You get in line like everybody else. I noticed while we waited that about two-thirds of the people trying to get new plates were turned away: not a good average. At least it wasn’t a gringo thing: the pinche burócrata was treating the poor Mexicans in line just as badly as he would soon treat us. We dutifully arrived at the front, where the official told us we needed copies of our Permanente cards, not passports, and a different form showing we had already paid. Strike One. He sent us to the helpful office around the corner where another enterprising pair of women had set up a copier and printer to help us. We made new copies and printed another receipt. “Nope, copies too dark, and this still isn’t the correct receipt” he told us. Strike Two. We didn’t have any more options for receipts, so we retreated to eat a delicious lunch of sesame-crusted tuna, then home to lick our wounds and scour our receipts for the right one.
In the official’s defense, we did have the wrong receipts. In Mexico, when you pay an official fee online, you often get three or more documents verifying your payment, but some of them are just links to a different government website where you have to print out yet another form. You have to have just the right form, although ALL the forms show you paid the correct amount, and in fact you couldn’t even get this far in the system (if one wants to call it that) without having already paid the right amount. *Sigh* In our defense, we pointed out we used the helpful ladies the official pointed us to, so how come their copier wasn’t sufficient? He shrugged, called his boss over, who also shrugged. We left the line. Maybe next time. This was all just a reminder that humility and acceptance are graces in high demand for expats.
There’s the culprit, hiding in plain sight. Are all the wires supposed to be hanging like that?
All this happened amidst a power outage in our neighborhood. Seems Monday night, something went “BOOM” and we lost power around 1:00 am. By the time we woke up the next morning, defrosting was already happening. But such outages are not uncommon here, usually lasting a few hours, so we ate a larger than normal breakfast of things not likely to last and tried to resume normalcy, awaiting the return of la luz (literally light, more generally electricity). Except our community has a well, and a pump, and that requires luz, so we had no water in addition to no power. As I said, we’ve been through this before: we have a garrofón, a giant plastic jug full of 20+ liters of fresh water lying in wait, just in case. We have smaller reusable water jugs in every bathroom, for extra water to flush in the same circumstances. We have a gas stove top, so when the power is gone, we can take out the matches and still cook, old-school. We have fancy French presses, a high-tech/lithium-ion/one-shot espresso maker, and a small mocha pot from Italy, so coffee is always available, as long as mankind doesn’t forget how to make fire (or push the button on the portable espresso device).
So the first morning wasn’t so bad. Except it was only the first morning. Seems the power company, a federal utility that goes by the initials CFE (and no, there is no truth to the rumor it stands for Can’t Find Electricity) saw a blown transformer and repaired it, but they never checked to see if that fixed all the homes that had lost power. It didn’t, and our community were the lucky hold-outs. When recontacted the second morning, they snapped to, and we had power restored (with water) in just thirty-six hours. If you’re counting, that’s well past the “throw-everything in your fridge out” limit, but just inside the “throw everything in your freezer out as well” limit. Phew.
Why am I regaling you with this? Mexicans adjust to the frequent absence of water and power. They primarily rely on garrofónes, since they don’t have wells and municipal water systems are not always potable, which means not at all. The basic level of electrical use, meaning a small refrigerator, a small television, some lights, is practically free. And if it goes out, you can always call up a relative and go visit to recharge. Or do without (gasp!). That fridge usually contains only a few items, as mamá goes out to the local tienda or mercado a few times a week to get fresh foods or perishables, and liter bottles of Coke never go bad (or is that never get worse?). And there’s no giant (capable-of-hiding-a-corpse size) freezer full of things Costco convinced you to buy, either. Storms come (in the rainy season), the power goes, life goes on.
But for expats, power and water loss are a bigger deal. Luz is what brings in North of the Border (NOB) television and the internet via Starlink and TelMex connections. Expats have things like Alexa devices, air purifiers, air conditioning, music systems, treadmills, power garage doors, a host of kitchen gadgets, and an untold number of personal apparatus from cell phones to computers to tablets to ear buds to hearing aids to CPAP machines. No power is no bueno. As much as we try to adapt to local culture, most expats are NOT trying to become Mexicans, nor do they seek to mirror how the locals live. If we did, we’d be immigrants, not expats.
In the thirty years we lived in and around Washington DC, we only had two major power outages. One was Hurricane Isabel (2003), which felled so many trees we in suburbia were without power for three days. The other was two days without power when the transformer for our apartment building in Shirlington blew up. A minor outage of more than a few hours meant untold pain for the local power company, and they fixed things up quickly. In our eight-plus years lakeside, we’ve had three or four major outages, and many, many minor ones. Enough to convince me that reliable power back-up is a necessity here for expats, not a convenience. We’re scoping out some home power stations, in effect large rechargeable batteries which can pull us through the outages we have experienced with a full fridge/freezer, internet, and maybe even TV. They are not cheap, but they are dependable, and that’s the cost of peace of mind. At the rate I am replacing fridge food, it’s a bargain.
If you’re especially observant (and my friends are), you’ll note the common theme in this post: relying on big, government-run utilities or services generally doesn’t work well. If Dante were alive today, the Mexican recaudadora would certainly merit its own ring in the Purgatorio, if not the Inferno. And CFE doesn’t respond to customers because, well, it doesn’t have to. Somewhere in the United States today, there is some slick, young huckster telling people that what we need is government-run grocery stores and child care centers.
Yup, it’s going to work this time. What could go wrong? And that still isn’t the correct receipt!
When we bought out current house lakeside, it came fully furnished, complete with a few books on the mantelpiece. One of these was a ponderous tome of 871 small-print pages, in English, with the title “Mexico, Biography of Power.” The work of Enrique Krauze, a famous Mexican historian and social commentator, it promised “a history of Mexico from 1810 to 1996.” As someone who loves history and wanted to learn more about my expat home, it beckoned. As a “busy” expat retiree with nothing to do but travel, visit family and friends, it daunted (me). This wasn’t casual summer reading. I like to take books along when we go on cruises, but this one would take up more than half of my carry-on! So I delayed diving in for a year or two, the work gathering dust in the space on my bookcase for things-not-yet-read.
Facing a two-week transatlantic cruise this year, I knew the time was ripe, so I dug into the first few chapters, then purchased an Ebook version for my Kindle, allowing me to continue reading without giving up essential cruise swimwear. As it was, I was able to read all through our travels in Europe and still have the last few chapters to finish with the hardback when we returned.
Krauze once opined that “all history is not biography, but without biography there is no history.” Mexico is a point in this thesis, in that its history is one of a series of strong men (until oh-so-recently, no woman had come near wearing the Presidential sash) personally imposing their views on the nation and its story, for good or ill. His work progresses from the War of Independence through the very end of the single-party state under the PRI, Partido Revolucionario Institucional, although when the book was completed the author was unaware that outcome was pending.
One of the themes of the book is the inescapable rise of a singular leader throughout Mexican history, which Krauze suggests is a legacy of both the tlatoani history of the Mexica (Aztecs) and the caciques of the Spanish crown. Eventually there arises a strong man to provide leadership and perhaps authoritarianism. While this parade of “great” men may seem quite common as a parallel to American readers and history, in Mexico there were significant differences. Without the famous “check & balances” of the American Republic, Mexico veers ever more so towards an all-powerful Presidente. And while violence is a common theme in both country’s stories, in Mexico the violence is consuming. So many of the contestants for leadership are assassinated, exiled, betrayed by friends, or killed while under arrest that the few who survive to a natural death are indeed exceptions to the rule.
After the multi-decade span of the Porfiriata (a dictatorship under Porfiro Diaz), these “great” men eventually settle on only one limit to their power: a single, six-year term of office called the sexenio. Their recompense is “el dedazo” (the big finger), whereby they “point” or select their successor, who is then (of course) elected. While this process developed under the PRI, it seems to be reviving under the current leadership.
Another theme is the gradual emergence of the Mexican raice, or race. In Krauze’s telling, the War of Independence is a revolt of the Criollos (Spaniards born in New Spain) against the Peninsulares (Spaniards born in Spain, living in New Spain). The nineteenth century invasions by the United States and France cement the rise of the mestizo (mixed race) segment of the population under the leadership of Benito Juarez, the first Presidente of indigenous origin. The Mexican Revolution was a final, full extension of recognition of all people, including the still extant indigenous tribes, as Mexican. This notion of a developing racial consciousness, albeit not based on skin color but ancestry, is only possible because while the Spanish conquest abused the indigenous peoples and discriminated against the mixed races, they eventually integrated all, unlike the North American model, which marginalized and virtually eliminated Native Americans.
This book also explained a historical dichotomy that had long troubled me: how was the Mexican revolution, which happened coincident with Russia’s and featured so many “socialist” ideas, not considered “Communist?” Mexico’s unique brand of institutional revolution does indeed parallel Moscow’s: single powerful leaders, a single-party state, expropriation of private property, open suppression of the Church, the creation of mega (and mega-corrupt) public utilities and sweeping public entitlements. But each of these grew out of home-grown concepts of the Mexican experience, neither Marx nor Lenin. There were Communist movements in Mexico, but they were as suppressed as any other party or foreign entity. Mexico developed its singular notion of non-intervention, which left it on the sidelines of the Cold War (and almost World War II), and while there developed a strange affection between Cuba and Mexico, much of it was based on the (misguided) hope Castro would turn out to be more nationalist than Communist.
One final very interesting point is the fact Krauze’s book was published just before Mexico developed into a true, multi-party democracy. Still, the tumultuous period of the early twentieth century eventually leads to Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, (AMLO), the most recent “great” man who was first denied by the powers that be, then rose to destroy the PRI, only to replace it with his Morena party, which now controls the Congress, the Presidency, and the courts. Enrique Krauze, who is still alive and commenting on Mexico, has noted the consistency of recent history with his original thesis.
While this work is hardly a casual read, it rewards those with patience to persevere. Krauze brings coherence to the many revolts, wars, and violence that permeate Mexican history, and his careful attention to each succeeding leader makes the parade of unfamiliar (to me) names intelligible. His is a sympathetic take on Mexico, stressing the importance of “the revolution” as a living concept that guides leaders even today.
I’m sure a few friends are thinking, “where?” Alicante (ah-lee-KAHN-tay) is one of those places which hasn’t really made it onto the cognitive map of most Americans and Canadians, but the English know it well! Nestled on Spain’s southeast coast, due south of better-known Valencia, Alicante is the largest city along the Costa Blanca, 200 kilometers of pristine beaches overlooked by looming mountains. Alicante has become a tourism hotbed for Germans and English, and the latter group includes a sizable population of permanent expats (even after Brexit). Sizable as in almost 20% of the local population!
Santa Barbara castle from our apartmentI did say looming, no?
Despite entering the month of June, the weather in Alicante was a bit better than Andalusia. Slightly more humid, slightly cooler, perhaps due to the moderating effect of the Mediterranean Sea. The city itself is not that large, about 350k at last count. But it is large enough to have all the accoutrements of city life, with the added benefits (or is it drawbacks) of tourist attractions. Within five blocks of our apartment in the tourist zone, about ten blocks from the beach, we passed a Taco Bell, McDonald’s, KFC, Burger King (Rey de la hamburguesa?) and Five Guys. Sigh. But a million tapas, cervecerias, and arrocerias, too.
The tourist/beach vibe was strong in Alicante. We saw folks headed down toward the beach early in the morning, and last-minute returnees as late as 10:00 pm (dead give-away? Nobody takes their beach umbrella on a tapas crawl). The Costa Blanca is basically one long beach, so finding a strip to your liking is easy. Developers have taken to dropping a cascade of high-rises just off the beach strip, but there’s still plenty of room in the sand and nothing cordoned off as private property (as far as we could tell).
We did some less touristy things, but more in line with apartment hunting, such as riding the tram and metro lines from one end to the other to get a feel for different neighborhoods. We’ve also contacted a local firm to consider a long-term rental for next year, perhaps as another form of trying the experience out. With such a rental (approximately 90 days), we could really settle in and even take some regional trips from the home-base. One local told us we might be able to establish the kind of relationship which would allow for a semi-permanent rental agreement, sort of a “preferred customer” thing where we could even leave some clothes and things behind for next year. We’ll see.
Why did Alicante impress us so much more than Sevilla (which was totally surprising to me)? Sevilla has more history, more culture, for sure. Cuisine is a wash: both have great food. Locals were equally friendly in both, although we saw a few signs of tourism fatigue in Sevilla. Alicante is just more live-able: cooler, with the tourist pull being the beach, not the old town. And it’s considerably less expensive.
So if you’re visiting Spain, you must visit Sevilla. If you want to hit a beach town, Alicante is just one of many in Spain. For living, the situation changes. I guess it’s a supply-and-demand thing: there is only one Sevilla, (limited supply, unlimited demand) but many great beach towns (unlimited supply, limited demand).
La Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel, on the plaza in San Miguel de AllendeGrand entrance at Tres Raices
Our second stop was in the famous San Miguel de Allende, another expat hot-spot. We certainly experienced the infamous San Miguel effect: walking uphill to arrive at a destination, than returning whence we started and (seemingly) walking uphill again! San Miguel is significantly more populated than the Chapala area where we live, and the town has more of an artsy, haute couture feel. Both Judy and I had the same reaction: the centro is Georgetown (DC types will understand)! The centro area is filled with gringo-friendly (if pricey) shops and restaurants, and is surrounded by large Mexican neighborhoods. We had a spectacular breakfast at a restaurant called Moxi, where the chef is (apparently) of Michelin-star quality. The food certainly was.
Wine paring dinnertastings and more tastings
Around San Miguel we visited the Dos Buhos, Tres Raices, and San Lucas wineries, with many of the same tastings results: amazing locations, uneven (but overall acceptable) wines. The highlight here was a wine pairing dinner at Los Remedios Hacienda, located in a tiny pueblo (called San Pablo, I believe). Here we had a memorable symphony of good wines, paired with a series of delicious dishes, in an unmatched setting. The vineyard is centered upon a redeveloped 16th century hacienda, wherein some of the original buildings and walls remain. Unforgettable. As for San Miguel? We could see what attracts so many expats, even if it’s not the place for us.
Twilight at the HaciendaStrain your eyes at the top center and you’ll make out El Pipila!
Our final brief stop was Guanajuato, a onetime silver mining town along the Camino Real (royal highway) in Mexico. Built among a series of steep ravines cut by rapid rivers through the rocky countryside, today it’s known for colorful casas, favorite son Diego Rivera (famous 20th Century Mexican muralist) and its university. The town is visually stunning: parts straddle the high ridges, other parts cling to the canyon-sides. Everywhere are well-maintained, colorful houses and buildings. The raging waters that once brought death and destruction have been literally buried, and their former courses replaced with winding roadways! Likewise, old silver mining tunnels now function as roads through the steep hills, complete with pedestrian walkways (but no lighting!). I would caution that although I am comfortable navigating most cities with Google Maps or Waze, Guanajuato was an exception. Many times my apps would tell me I was standing in the middle of a highway, when in fact I was standing 200 feet above a buried one! I would caution against driving in the town, even only to avoid severe parking shortages.
The Basilica, just one of many picturesque Spanish colonial vistas!
Guanajuato has a real college-town atmosphere, and loads of history. Most striking is the story of El Pipila. Born Juan Amaro in 1783, he had birth defects which gave him a funny stride, and a suitable nickname among his fellow silver miners: el pepila (“the turkey”). At the outbreak of the war for independence, the Spanish leadership in Guanajuato barricaded themselves and their families in the local grain storage site or alhondiga, a large, fortified building which would allow them to hold out until Spanish troops arrived to relieve them. The insurgents could not breech the walls, but El Pipila placed a slab of rock on his back and maneuvered–under fire but protected by the slab–to the main door, which he set on fire. The insurgents surged forward, and proceeded to slaughter everyone inside. When the Spanish crown authorities retook the city and initially crushed the rebellion, they decapitated the four leaders of the insurgency and placed their heads on the four corners of the building! El Pipila became the archetype for the rebellion, which despite so many setbacks, eventually prevailed. El Pipila survived the war and went back to mining silver.
Our time was so very brief here, but the town is enchanting, and well worth spending more time for the history, the culture and the annual Cervantes international celebration.
We had a great time touring the vineyards and walking the towns. The climate was pleasantly moderate, the people friendly (although ingles was only common in San Miguel!), the entire area safe. Best of all, there were many opportunities to see Real Mexico.
Literally, it’s an inn, a place to find shelter for the weary traveler. But it’s also a tradition, brought by the Spaniards to the New World, and an adorable one at that. As the octave of Christmas begins (eight days before), neighborhoods collect themselves and plan their posadas. The point of the posada is to memorialize the visit by Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary to Nazareth, where they were turned away several times before finally finding shelter in a stable.
Each barrio in the village chooses a different night, and sets the routes. It’s low key, local fun. We marched along with the kids and moms for a while, two tall (six feet) gringos in a sea of locals. We were amazed at how the traffic on the carretera stopped instantly for the entire procession to cross. Even the roof dogs seemed to know barking at this throng was not required. We did have to dodge a rooster and his hens who were quite put out by the size of the group.
All in all, a fun Christmas experience void of commercialism and retaining some part of the original story. Feliz Navidad!
One of the real oddities about being an expat is dealing with healthcare in a different culture, different legal system, and a different language. I think most people think, “medicine is medicine, right?” but the differences are profound. Living here in what some derisively label Gringolandia can bring the differences home.
Take how hospitals approach inpatient services. In Mexico, nurses are something less than a licensed practical type in the states. Most here are more administrative helpers than anything else. Hospitals expect a family member to stay with you (the patient) in the hospital to help with basic care! Going in for surgery? You will probably be reminded to arrange a group of friends to come and donate blood for you. And the blood donor restrictions go all the way to how many hours since your last meal, so while you’re sitting around waiting to give blood, you’ll also be worrying about those (there are too soon AND too late limits). Of course, every visiting tourist who ends up hospitalized in Mexico also reacts in horror when the hospital refuses to release you before you pay your bill! But from the hospital’s standpoint, it has no way to collect once you’re gone, so you’re not leaving until they stamp la cuenta with pagado.
Mexico has free national health care, and it provides health services directly equivalent to the cost (nada). It is not uncommon to hear of local hospitals short on basic medicines (e.g., antibiotics) or bandages. Very good private hospitals are available, and the prices here are much less costly than in the States. Partly that’s because of the Mexican health market. Mexicans rarely go to the doctor. They don’t trust the government ones, and they don’t see the point in paying for the private ones. Without much demand, there is little inflationary price pressure. Also–and very importantly–there is little or none of the malpractice legal regime so familiar in the states. Just doesn’t happen much here.
All these factors play out in an unusual way at lakeside. In an area with slightly more than 50,000 people, we have at least three hospitals, three specialty clinics, and a Cruz Roja (Red Cross) facility. And twenty dentists and no one knows how many farmacias! This surfeit of health care is driven by the expats, those (like us) who have insurance coverage or others who simply pay as you go. Costs have been rising as local doctors/hospitals realize there is a captive population here which doesn’t want to travel up to Guadalajara (which is the medical centro for Mexico) and is willing to pay a premium for English-fluent (relatively speaking) staff and doctors. Dentistry is still pretty cheap for the same reasons I mentioned, and often the care and equipment are state of the art. I know I have mentioned before the immediate 3D printing for crowns which is common here.
What goes on behind the scenes of all these health services is even more interesting. Expats highlight the relative costs (still a deal), the quality care (doctors still make house calls), and the great availability. But it’s a totally different health system. Mexico in general has a “you get what you want” approach to medicines, services, and regulations, and many expats forget that. The view among medical professionals here is, “if you as the patient want to try something, you should be able to do so.” In the States or Canada, the medical industry is tightly regulated from top to bottom, and constantly checked through the government inspection and legal regimes. Here you can find a doctor who will work for you with any treatment you can imagine, for any reason. You take the risk, so it’s up to you. And doctors will gladly refer you for more tests and treatments, if that’s what you want.
Take stem cells, for example. In the United States, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has approved stem cell treatments for blood disorders like leukemia and lymphoma, conditions like osteoarthritis and Crohn’s disease, and cord blood stem cell therapy for certain cancers and blood disorders. There are numerous clinical trials underway with promising possibilities. Meanwhile, unlicensed clinics and doctors in the States have pushed unapproved stem cell treatments, resulting in hundreds of deaths and severe complications. In the States. With all that regulation and all those lawsuits.
In our little pueblo, there are two stem cell clinics and many private doctors offering stem cell treatments. Now it’s just possible that tiny Ajijic is a hotbed of cutting-edge stem cell medicine. And it’s also possible local doctors are just providing for the treatment expats are requesting. And it’s also possible some quackery is involved. If you peruse social media, there are many testimonials from local expats to this doctor or that treatment. What you have to understand is there is no medical evidence behind these testimonials. There is ample anecdote, and people swear they got better. But the plural of anecdote is not data.
People misunderstand the placebo effect, and think it means the result (“I got better”) is fake. It’s not. The improvement post-treatment due to the placebo effect is oftentimes real. That’s why the placebo effect is so important in medicine: just doing something (for example, giving someone a sugar pill which has no utility), results in a positive outcome. Why? Medicine does not know why, they just know it happens. What are some theories? One is that the appearance of treatment “tricks” the patient’s psyche into greater effort (The medicine will work, my body needs to help, too).
Another is even more simple: what happens most times you get sick? Well, you get well, treatment or no. Barring an accident, you’ll get sick hundreds or thousands of times (for many diseases, like West Nile or Dengue, the vast majority of people are asymptomatic: they had it and never even know they had it), and you eventually get better. Ok, eventually you get one that you just up-and-die from, but the most likely outcome of most sickness is: health. And this could show up in the placebo results, too.
So when you read about all the people saying, “I got stem cells, and my sciatica cleared up” or whatever, remember (1) they may not know whether they got stem cells or not, (2) sciatica can resolve on its own, (3) the placebo effect is real and could be the cause, or (4) they may be the leading edge of a medical breakthrough. But what you should never do is to confuse how medicine is practiced here with how it is practiced back home, wherever that is. It’s not that one way is better than another; just that they’re different, and the differences are important.
Random musings from our six-week excursion, starting in Amsterdam, through Milan and Puglia, down to Sicily and back up to Vicenza:
Senza (without) is a key word
I know I sound like a broken record at this point, but it still amazes me that casual American culture has so overtaken Europe. Even baseball caps are no longer a dead giveaway of American tourists. I can’t tell you how many middle-aged (aka “adult”) men I saw wearing t-shirts with vulgar English-language slogans (e.g., “if you can read this, f*ck you!”) who were clearly locals. Athletic shoes (I am old enough to have typed tennis shoes before correcting myself) for all, athleisure apparel wear for women, be-sloganned t-shirts for men (although still no shorts, gracias a Dios!). Yes, Europeans still dress well for work or to go out at night (i.e., when they want to be dressy), but otherwise they look as slovenly as any middle-American mall cohort. *sigh*
Vaping was a constant wherever we went: far too many people in Europe have not gotten the message it’s as bad as smoking. There was a lot of toking in Amsterdam, a lot of regular smoking the farther we went south in Italy. Restaurants and businesses upheld all the correct laws about non-smoking, but often it was easy to be surrounded by a cloud of smoke out and about.
Why has Europe perfected healthy, delicious snacks and quick meals, and the US hasn’t? We got bagged cornetti (fruit-filled rolls) on the trains in Europe, and they tasted fresh and good, even after a few days. You could buy snacks from an automat machine and they tasted good. Coffee vending machines? Excellent! Even the prepared meals/snacks in the supermarket were well-done, easy to prepare, and healthy. Contrast that with America: pizza rolls (motto: “no animals or vegetables were harmed in the manufacture of this product”), desiccated 7-11 hot dogs, stale Twinkies from a vending machine last inspected in 2011. Didn’t we invent fast food? And why does US fast food have unpronounceable ingredients? It’s enough to make one believe in the conspiracy theories!
Evolution has not caught up with the Italian people in light of the cell phone. Watching a young Italian woman hold a phone video conversation on a train was worth the price of admission. One hand cradling the device, the other gesturing wildly. Then a sudden pause, as she shifted the phone to the other hand, and resumed gesturing with the first. And so on, back-n-forth. Until they master hands-free technology in Europe, the Italians are throttled.
Permissive parenting is a drag. I like to be around kids; I really enjoy playing games with my grandkids. But I am used to, and expect, parents to teach children their place in society. I had a chance to book a “quiet car” on TrenItalia and thought “why?” Well I learned why, because the two Italian families in our car let their children play tag, run, and scream around the car for an hour. Likewise, our attempt to sit in a cafe near Bari and enjoy the outdoor setting was ever-so-slightly disturbed by two Italian grandparents who seemed to really enjoy their grandson chasing pigeons in the park. Shrieking at the top of his lungs. For half-an-hour straight. So loud the three local men listening to the live feed of the calcio (soccer) match couldn’t hear the broadcast. Ay-ay-ay!
The Dutch like fried food. . . a lot. I learned that Dutch expats miss most bitterballen: fried, battered meatballs. They also crave raw herring sandwiches. I thought this was because of all the coffee shops and MJ use, but it long predates that. I never want to hear anybody criticize pizza rolls again.
Italian cuisine, in its many forms, is amazing. But is it okay to admit that while every place in Italy claims to be unique and special in its pasta/cheese/tomatoes/ragu/etc., that in the end, the similarities are far greater than the differences? It’s all good; it’s often great. But I’m sorry, it is all not that different. And it is still hard to find any other cuisine in Italy, except in larger cities.
If you are going to travel by train in Europe at all, make sure and google some combination of the name of the country you will be in, the month, and the words “train strike.” They are so regular that they actually frequently announce them. Few things would be worse than finding that the train service to your airport is disrupted on the day you’re leaving.
Before we left I was cleaning out my clothes closet and decided it was finally time to throw out my twenty-year-old cargo pants. Damn if they’re not back in fashion, all over Europe. I could have been vintage! Ditto for mom jeans, but I don’t have any.
My suspicion that a sport coat was all it took to pass as “not an American tourist” still has a perfect record. Since I bought a good, lightweight, navy blue sport coat and started wearing it–especially on travel days–I have never had anyone walk up to me and start speaking in English. Or ask where in America I was from. The sport coat is not exactly a style setter, but it is enough to look like a serious adult (even me!), it’s comfortable (if you research and buy the right product), and it holds up even to machine washing. I do need to learn the phrase “Sorry, I don’t speak ______” because I do get asked for directions, time, weather, etc.
If you really want to score some points travelling, learn a little about the national politics where you are headed and ask a local (e.g., a garrulous taxi driver) what they think of a party, a candidate, or an issue. Most Europeans I met are amazed to find an American who knows a little about their national politics, and they will willingly vent on the subject. It’s fun, educational, and passes the time.
The Chinese tourist wave, which washed over Europe just before Covid, has still not resurfaced. Which is not to say places aren’t crowded with tourists, just not large Chinese tour groups.
Word association time: what word comes to mind when someone says Sicily? Probably mafia or Godfather, first. Maybe cannoli, but that could be linked to the famous “Leave the gun, take the cannoli” line from the movie, too. Until fairly recently, it was fair to connect the largest island in the Mediterranean Sea with organized crime. Mafia control, portrayed in the Godfather movie trilogy, got so bad in the 1990s that they literally blew up several judges who had the audacity to question their hold. But la Cosa Nostra (as they are known) overplayed their hand, and the bombing led to a sustained campaign to break them down. Successive Italian governments tracked them down, and even Pope Francis joined in, excommunicating them in 2014. After thirty years, organized crime has returned to the shadows, unable to flex its muscles in the daylight.
But Sicily remains a poor, underdeveloped place with an abundance of history and culture. Whether the former attributes outweigh the latter is a matter of personal opinion.
The Norman palacea church with Norman aspectsbut notice the Arab andother influences mixed in
We started our tour in Palermo, the island’s one-time capital and largest city. Palermo was a royal city, and a must-see part of the Grand Tour for European nobility in the eighteenth century. It has a proud heritage that mixes Phoenician, Roman, Greek, Norman, Arab, and Spanish influences. But today these influences largely reside in monuments and meals, and the main feel of the city is a blue-collar, slightly grimy vibe. I’d call it Naples without the cachet.
Norman ceilingByzantine artworkArab influences
The other large city is Catania, on the east coast, literally in the shadow of Mount Etna. It has some of the same challenges, but seems a little more successful, having more a university town vibe than Palermo. The volcano is a must-see tourist stop, so that’s one advantage; it also accounts for unique soil and terroir, benefiting wines, cheeses, vegetables and the like.
Catania central squareRoman thermal suite under the CathedralOne small lava field on Etna, which dominates the eastern shore
Getting around Sicily is a challenge. First, it’s large. Second, it is mountainous. It does have a bus, train, and car routes, but all of it runs on a sinuous network that could make a Formula One driver queasy. Palermo and Catania have decent airports, the latter subject to Mount Etna’s whims. So you can spend a lot of time getting from one site to another, or even around a town.
Monks built a earthen wall to protect against the 1669 Etna eruption. Now they have a two-tiered campus
The small towns in Sicily are inviting, once you can get to them. There life operates on a different level. They benefit from the fertile volcanic soil and the warm and (usually) moist climate, but mostly from the history. On the island, you can find some of the best Greek temples, Roman villas, baroque churches, and even Punic sites.
A Greek, a Roman, and a Bishop walk into a bar…
Maybe you like history?
From Garibaldi’s campaignGreek mythology in a fountaintemple/mosque/church
How about scenery?
Marble quarriesSurfside vistasstreet scenes
Of course there’s always the food:
Sicilian street food lunch at Florio wineryPork ribs in spicy saucePasta Alla NormaCaponata and “spicy” potatoesStufatino (beef stew)Lamb & potatoes
Sicily? Worth a visit. Given the geography, I suggest a tour, especially one themed to what you like: history? Food? Wine? Your ethnic background? One challenge is that Sicily is already warm in the traditional “shoulder” season, so the crowds start building earlier in the Spring than elsewhere in Europe. As to our sweepstakes for another expat site, this visit confirmed it is off our list. While it is charming and alluring, it is too hard to get to and too hard to get around. If I was an Italian-American looking to rediscover my Sicilian roots, it might be a different story.
