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differentiate |_dif__ren sh ___t| |_d_f__r_n(t)_i_e_t| |_d_f__r_n__e_t|
verb [ trans. ]
1 recognize or ascertain what makes (someone or something) different : children can differentiate the past from the present. See note at distinguish .
- [ intrans. ] ( differentiate between) identify differences between (two or more things or people) : he is unable to differentiate between fantasy and reality.
- make (someone or something) appear different or distinct : Twain was careful to differentiate Huck’s speech from that of other white people.
One might think that because Andy and I have decided to up and move to a third world country that our every day experiences are completely abstract to that from back home. It is true that there are some things that have taken time to “adjust” to. During the assimilation process there have been stressful and awkward moments, humorous and ridiculous ones as well. However, there are as many things usual and predictable as strange and unfamiliar.
The children here are a perfect example of similarity. We have a crap load; yes I am using this as an actual unit of measure, of ninos in our neighborhood. Ninos everywhere, however most heavily concentrated right underneath our windows. They like to screech and squeal, draw on Andy’s car with sharp rocks, smack each other upside the head for no reason, play with imaginary caballos and test their parent’s patience. Yes, that’s right folks, it’s NOT just in the US but worldwide children are slowly driving their parents insane. Just last week Andy was walking down our very steep hill towards the bus stop. He said he couldn’t help but notice the rather frightening man who lives two casas down from us quietly screaming at someone at the bottom of the hill. Anyone who has a parent or who is one, so that’s everyone, can relate to the “quiet scream.” It’s when you’ve actually shoved your parent right over the chalk line and they’re lying there, motionless from the anger. All they have to do is look at you, raise the bows just about halfway from the hairline and open their mouth partly. There’s an overwhelming calm that comes over their whole body and the calmer they are the shakier you become. You can almost predict how swollen your ass will be depending on the tone in your parent’s voice. Andy said he peered down the hill past a group of dog in the middle of a meeting, and identified the suspect. Small boy, devilish pupils, scabs on both knees and a clump of hair sticking straight up. He turned back to spy once more on the General. A pillar of steam was now exiting his ears as he ripped a thin, soft, long branch from the tree above him. Without hesitation or pause he slid his fingers from the top of the branch to the bottom removing every last leaf. The General then proceeded to apprehend the suspect, who knew at that point running away would earn himself more than just a Mexican switch. Back up the hill he went, this time with his left arm extended, the suspect’s neck and shirt fabric tightly inside his grip with his shoes eleven inches above ground. Andy kept walking but could hear the tears hit the gravel.
What we have found alarming is the apparent lack of birth control. I would venture to say that 95% of all the Mexican women, 18 and up, we see regularly are pregnant, accompanied by ninos or both. Even more alarming is the amount of young girls in this same predicament, some as young as 11 and 12. We have spoken to several locals about this situation and it has been explained to us that this is partially cultural however the young girls getting pregnant is now an epidemic. The majority of this area is Catholic. Being the good Catholic that they are, little pills arranged in a circle of 31 are not common, condoms can only be purchased behind the counter at a pharmacy and apparently no one is pulling and praying in Puerto Vallarta.
There is something that Andy I noticed right away concerning the men in Mexico. It must be some sort of initiation into manhood, passed down from father to son, son to brother. It’s rarely spotted these days in the States and if so very few can pull it off well without looking like an introverted pedophile. Bear has got a handle on it, well not literally, and my Uncle Donald looks quite fetching with one but that’s about the only two I can think of. I am speaking of the mustache. No beard or goatee to accompany it. Just a mustache. We have numerous variations on the ‘stache from long and skinny to short and thick. We’ve got the teen ‘stache which looks more like a dirty upper lip than a crop of whiskers. We’ve also got the “That ‘stache is hiding something” ‘stache and the ever popular classic “Cheech” ‘stache. There are many different widths and girths to the ‘staches depending on age, genes and the size of the cowboy hat.
Imagine our shock when one afternoon, while waiting for the bus, I noticed the guy next to me sin (without) ‘stache. He was of mustache age. He was wearing steel toed boots, skin dark from the sun and pigment, but there in the middle of the afternoon, a Mexican man SIN ‘STACHE! Then Andy turned around and saw two more gentlemen sin ‘stache. Then a cab driver without a single whisker between his dimples. I examined two different bus drivers as they came and went and guess what? Not one mustache. I couldn’t take it. I looked at Andy with fear for what awaited us in the worst episode of the Twilight Zone ever.
With a look of discovery as if he had unlocked the mystery of the rubix cube he smiled eerily and said, “Do you realize where we are?” I waited, longer than I felt necessary. “We are on the corner of Sin St. and ‘Stache Alley.”
We’ve yet to go back to that intersection since.
There are dozens of other comparisons we’ve made between our temporary home and the home we’ve only known. Consumer products, service wait times, friendly greetings for no reason other than it’s a Tuesday, gay boyfriend opportunities, food and money, musical ego and professional respect. Some differences are extremely frustrating like the fact that “Manana” doesn’t actually mean “tomorrow”, it just means “not today.” And then there are similarities that are just terribly disappointing like the cost of groceries at the Super Amigo. We get our gas from a guy who drives around the village with a bullhorn crying out “Global Gasssssssss. . . ..global gassssssssss,” and homemade hot corn tortillas every morning from the tortilla factory at the end of the hill.
It was the morning I woke up feeling like absolute hell. The sleepy sand was trapped in morning eye glue, my throat was sharp and I could feel every sinus cavity in my face. Hank was roosting louder and more frequently than the norm and Andy was having some sort of conversation with Ms.C in the hallway.
“Yeah, Kirsten is definitely not feeling well. She was complaining of a pretty bad headache last night and she was wheezing this morning.” I could feel the frequency in his voice behind my eyeballs.
Ms.C gave a sympathy sigh before replying, “That’s awful. I was sick all last week. I have tons of drugs. Let me see what I’ve got upstairs.”
I heard Ms.C’s clogs clank every step upward, over my bed and then off into the living room. Andy came back into the room and pressed the back of his hand against my forehead. He shook his head to confirm the fever and offered to make me some soup.
“I’m just going to take a shower and then I’ll run down to the market and grab some veggies. I can use the chicken from a couple days ago,” he said placing his palm behind my skull. Lifting my head forward he carefully slid another pillow behind, handed me some chamomile tea and the crossword book.
I squinted back at him. “Thanks babe. I would love some soup.”
Andy grabbed a towel and disappeared into the hall, “Oh. I almost forgot,” he said passing through the shower curtain. “Ms.C has some drugs for you. You might have to answer the door.”
I opened the book of crosswords we had been working on for over two months. I had just found the perfect grip for the pencil and the perfect looking puzzle when I heard someone calling from below.
“Buenos dias,” the unfamiliar voice cried out. “Perdon!”
I pulled myself up and outside the covers. I peered out the window to find two men with white t-shirts on. Upon further observation I spotted the TeleCable insignia over the heart.
“Sweet,” I thought to myself forgetting I was sick. “The internet guys are here!”
Quickly I grabbed my running pants, inserted my legs and ran downstairs. Of course they didn’t speak English and my Spanish is horrible. They gestured to the name on the work order.
“Francesca Ortiz? Francesca Ortiz aqui?”
I told them no one by that name lived here but explained that we and Ms.C were waiting for TeleCable to install our Internet. Just as they had opened the door handles and climbed into the white VW bug with an extension ladder atop Andy came outside to investigate. I explained that they were looking for Francesca Ortiz.
“Maybe that has something to do with Ms.C?” he said with hope. “Could you go try and find her? I’ll stop them,” he said running after the vehicle.
I ran into the hall and called out to Ms.C. After the forth attempt and several knocks on her door she came down. I asked her if the TeleCable people were supposed to come that day but she said no. I motioned out the front door to Andy to let the workers go. I heard the diesel engine spin before closing the door.
“You know what? Maybe I should go check my work order. Don’t let them leave just yet,” said Ms.C climbing the steps again with her ever so clunky clogs. I ran back to the front door and strained my neck around the wood.
“WAAAAIT ANDY!” I yelled straining what little vocal chords I had left.
Again Andy chased the guys down the hill, this time requiring a bit more zest.
“Uno momento por favor,” he asked, breath behind him.
I turned back into the hallway to find Ms.C knee-deep in confusion and receipts. I began scanning the print for anything resembling a work order from the cable company. After a cell phone bill from Canada, a note from her old roommate who 20 years before that used to be her husband, five liquor receipts, a prescription for something I couldn’t translate and bar tab we found it. There was nothing on it for Francesca Ortiz and the date for the work order was for the following Monday. I shrugged my shoulders and lurched my whole front half back out the front door.
“Never mind, never mind. Desculpe.”
Andy looks back at the guys shaking his head. “Los mujeres (women).”
The guys all start laughing.
I guess in the end the similarities far outweigh the differences.
And now for a little lesson. . . . . .
cafe
leche’
pan
vino blanco
un hombre’
una mujer
Un hombre con una mujer.
Ani es un gato.
Myla es un gato.
Un burro con un muy grande . . . . . .(well, we haven’t learned that word yet.)
lavatory |_lav__tôr_| |_løv__t_ri| |_lav_t(_)ri|
noun ( pl. -ries)
a room or compartment with a toilet and washbasin; a bathroom.
• a sink or washbasin in a bathroom.
• Brit. a flush toilet.
ORIGIN late Middle English : from late Latin lavatorium ‘place for washing,’ from Latin lavare ‘to wash.’ The word originally denoted something in which to wash, such as a bath or piscina, later (mid 17th cent.) a room with washing facilities; the current sense dates from the 19th cent.
The art of the bathroom. As Andy put it, “You know how when you go into the bathroom there is the obvious knowledge that it’s a place where bathroom things happen, but every ‘bathroom like’ thing that does happen goes to this magical place? It’s seems as though our magical place isn’t that far away from our actual bathroom. I think that place might be right outside the bathroom door as a matter of fact and that’s not all that magical now is it?”
This is true. . Our bathroom smells like a bathroom with a non-magical place very near by. Our bathroom looks like a bathroom dug into the earth by small Mexican toothpicks. Our bathroom sounds like a bathroom that exists at the bottom of a wishing well. However there no scary spiders waiting to eat your curds and whey, the water spins clockwise inside our super white toilet bowl and we can even brush our teeth with water that spills out the ancient furnace piping, Asian oddly enough, that’s been renamed a faucet. Although we thoroughly, let me rephrase that; although Andy thoroughly cleans the bathroom every Sunday, it is still just a bathroom with a very non-magical place OBVIOUSLY nearby.
Okay. We have covered mostly everything: the toilet, the sink, the magical place. Ohhhhh. That’s right. There is one place we have not touched on yet. That would be the shower. Let me begin by stating that taking a shower pisses me off. I have come to hate the shower. I think I would rather lay down on the front steps amongst all the things with more than 2 legs and let Andy spit water through a straw on me than take a God-forsaken shower.
Our shower looks like a normal shower. The belly of the shower squeaks when you stroke it, like a good clean shower should. It regurgitates water through many holes at the end of a nozzle, although the nozzle is attached to a hose attached to the faucet which that in itself causes problems that will be addressed later. Below the faucet sits the mouth whose job is to swallow the fallen water in a timely manner, all quite typical of an adequate functioning shower.
“So,” one might ask, “what is the problem exactly?” To answer this question one must follow with yet another question. “What provides heat to the otherwise cold water?” This question is only answered after further investigation of the mystery closet off the kitchen; the mystery closet that mysteriously floods with tan, cloudy ground water approximately four and three quarter days a week. Rather than a giant metal tank that holds a specific number of gallons of water, the ancient Asian furnace piping that carries the water to the bathroom winds through a “caliente tunnel.” Inside the tunnel is a small Asian; yes I mentioned this was quite odd origin earlier, furnace. The furnace burns the water to a boil as it passes through to the bathroom.
Now, for the first nine days of our “Viva de Mexico” experience the furnace failed to ignite. Two non-English speaking plumbers eventually stopped by after happy hour one late afternoon. With a wrench in one hand and a red can of Tecate’ in the other the more sober plumber entered the mystery closet. After what sounded like some sort of shady business deal, which seemed abnormal to be coming from inside the mystery closet with just a drunk plumber and a flooded cement floor, the man emerged with an empty can of Tecate’, a giant smile and an apparent resolution to the “no hot water” situation. Following a strenuous round of charades and a few Spanglish exchanges we were able to interpret the details surrounding the problem. In order to get the furnace in the mood the hot water knob, which is located on the right rather than the left, must be completely open. The furnace requires strong water pressure to ignite. The less sober plumber stumbled towards the bathroom while I followed the other one into the mystery closet.
“Bueno!” the voice screeched from inside the shower. Sure as shit, behind the furnace door I spied 7 tiny Mexicans with 7 tiny mustaches and sombreros singing, dancing and shoveling coal into the inferno using 7 tiny shovels. Drunky tossed them 10 pesos then quickly clasped the door shut. I could hardly contain the excitement of a hot shower, hot enough to melt away 9 days of obscenity from my skin. As Andy escorted drunk one and drunk two out the front door, I sprinted towards the bathroom leaving my clothes behind like breadcrumbs.
“All the way to the left,” I thought to myself as I turned the knob with my fingers. After switching the flow from down below to up above I stretched the curtain wide. Curled toes first I climbed into the tub.
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!” I screamed as my chest skin slid down my front, getting trapped between my big toe and second toe. I tried reaching for the valve to cut the showerhead off but shards of fire beat against eyelids and cheeks. I sacrificed my left leg extending it outward towards the valve quickly switching the flow to the faucet. Gallons of boiling water gushed out the nose spilling over the mouth. I fumbled over the hot and turned it all the way to the right. Relief followed by breathing. I watched as the last toboggan of skin slid over the mouth and down the throat. I tried again. Turned the hot all the way to the left. This time I turned the cold knob just a hair to the right, switched the lever and stood under the nozzle.
“Ahhhhh, that’s more like it,” I said to the shower curtain. I squeezed a dollop of shampoo into the palm of my hand then transferred it to my head. Eyes closed, back to the water, I began messaging my scalp. Just as the bubbles started multiplying I felt a change happening along my spine. In extreme water temperature situations it’s sometimes difficult to decipher the difference between ice and fire, there is a moment when they disguise themselves as the other. My back began smoking, thick steam began billowing and new curse words began forming. I had no idea which way to turn, it was everywhere. Whistling screams flew out my voice box as I blindly fumbled over the knob. I managed to flip the lever. Now, just lava. Red, hot, molten, Mexican lava was pouring out of my faucet. I tried to reach for the hot knob but the trail of lava was just moving too quickly. I straddled myself above the volcanic river below. My right leg, bent and shaky, was the more stable of the two balancing itself above my well-placed foot. The left was a bit trickier. I managed to fit just 3 toes along the plastic ridge, the other two left to fend for themselves. Then a horrible thought entered my brain.
“If I fall, the first body part to submerge itself will be my vagina. If my vagina enters the lava it is possible that a very important part of it could just melt right off. Oh God! For the love of God, please don’t let me fall!”
I could feel liquid running down my face. Unfortunately the liquid was shampoo overflow. Of course the overflow ran right into my eye forcing it closed. With only one eye open, legs stretched across the tub, vagina shuttering with fear I reached forward. It worked. The water stopped, lava floated over the mouth and down the throat. I carefully balanced myself on my hands and slowly lowered my feet. I had to turn the water on again. I couldn’t leave the lather on my head or the filth in my pores.
I turned the hot, this time a little more cold, switched the lever and under the nozzle I went. The temperature this time was perfect. I rinsed the suds from what hair I had left on my head and then reached for my sponge and soap. I could feel the water’s temperature rising. I quickly tuned the cold knob to the left.
“Fewwww,” I thought, avoiding yet another scalding. Forty-eight seconds past before I felt yet another temperature change. This time it plummeted to the opposite extreme. I barely had time to wash a thigh and calf before the goose bumps invaded my outsides. The cold was real cold, but felt even that colder considering I had second-degree burns on three quarters of my body. I tried turning the knob all the way back to the right but that only made the cold even colder. I switched the level, closed all the knobs and repeated again. Hot all the way to the left, cold 2 turns to the left, twist the lever and get under the nozzle, perfect water for forty-eight seconds, water develops a rising fever, adjust the cold, snowflakes float out the spigot, repeat. I managed to tolerate lightless game of My Simon for five rounds before getting so frustrated that I just gave up. I let it win. Pissed off I turned all the knobs to the right, this time with some force. The force jostled the nozzle head lose sending downward, cracking me right in the forehead.
“I hate you!” I said grabbing the lime green towel.
“No you don’t,” Andy said coming into the bathroom.
“Not you. The shower. You wait,” I snarled shoving him out of my way. “See how much fun you have taking a shower. I’m never taking one again. Fuck the shower, it fucking sucks.”
improvise |_impr__v_z| |__mpr__va_z| |__mpr__va_z| |__mpr_v__z|
verb [ trans. ]
create and perform (music, drama, or verse) spontaneously or without preparation : the ability to improvise operatic arias in any given style | [ intrans. ] he was improvising to a backing of guitar chords | [as adj. ] ( improvised) improvised humor.
Cuates y Cuetes is a restaurant that consistently came up when Andy was researching places the play jazz in Puerto Vallarta. No matter what book or website he found, it was Cuates y Cuetes at the top of the list. He also found a PV musicians’ message board where locals and potential transients post and respond to messages in the hope of booking gigs in the Puerto Vallarta area. This is where Andy found Mr. Bugeyes who cordially invited Andy to Cuates y Cuetes.
Let me take a moment to describe Mr.Bugeyes. He is probably in his late forties, early fifties. He is also a bass player. He wears a very shiny head to match his very shiny face. His skin is burnt amber. He sports round frames across his eyes and white button down linen shirts. He is always smoking. He speaks through a bizarre, indefinable accent. This is possibly a result of being raised in the UK, and then living fifteen plus years in Minnesota before moving here to Puerto Vallarta. He is very nice and forthcoming with information for gringos. You can see, behind the severely nearsighted eyes, a slightly debaucherous back-story. He has done a significant amount of touring and recording as a successful musician. I am sure that he has sniffed everything that can be sniffed and smoked twice as much at one point in his life. I don’t think that Mr. Bugeyes likes me very much and that is all right. He has several expensive basses he plays that we have met and one supposed wife he speaks of that we haven’t met. He likes Andy in a weird competitive way. At least it was enough to invite him to the open jazz jam last Monday.
Andy’s steps were hesitant and slow as we rounded the corner to the restaurant. I could hear the horns first followed by the rest of the band.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t just bring your bass with you,” I whispered in the ear closest to my mouth.
He paused, looked at me and said, “I told you. It’s in poor form to just assume you can play the first time you go to one of these things. It’s better to network, meet people and wait for the invite.”
Once underneath the overhang we identified the one familiar face, Mr.Bugeyes with a white linen button down and a half smoked Mexican butt. He smiled halfway before motioning to the two empty chairs next to him. As they began talking shop I scanned the perimeter. There were more empty chairs than taken ones. The majority of drinkers and listeners were white tourists enjoying retirement. There were seemingly way too many older drunk women with leathery tans and fringed t-shits migrating towards the cluster of musicians. It wasn’t so much a stage as it was a corner near the bar where the music was coming from. Later we were introduced to the bass player and his wife, the singer. Mr. And Mrs. Rio were both new to Puerto Vallarta via Brasil, their home country. Behind them was El Dartho, the naughty little drummer who learned English by watching Star Wars. Keys was this incredible piano player who propositioned me to be a backup dancer for his solo gigs. Lastly we met Chimbo whose skills on the saxophone and flute go far beyond his ripe old age of twenty.
We ordered two Negro Modellos and participated in broken conversation with the band during their short break. Actually I did a lot more uncomfortable smiling than anything else. It just so happened that earlier that day Mr. Rio had just bought this cheap upright bass and had brought it to the gig. Andy went over to the stone corner where it was propped up and ticked it with his fingers. I noticed some nodding and laughter exchanged between he and Mr. Rio and next thing I knew they were shaking hands and Andy was on stage with Chimbo, El Dartho and Keys. After a four count they began playing. I watched as Andy molested her strings with his hands. As the music sped up his face intensified, stance deepened. Before I knew it he was soloing and everyone was watching. I was nervous, carefully examining his choice in notes and scales, as if I had any idea what he was doing. Applause filled the space as he finished and passed the floor over to Chimbo who then took a solo of his own. After a drum solo the music raced to the finish, completing Andy’s unexpected audition. There was much more clapping and Spanish hollering as he shook Mr. Rio’s hand and smacked his right shoulder at the same time. Mr. Rio walked back to his seat, encouraging Andy to play some more.
The second song was more of a swing than Latin jazz, but again, what do I know? I did notice that the music seemed a bit faster and Andy’s participation in the melody required much more finger work. All of a sudden I observed a “not so typical” move on the bass, which immediately drew my attention to his right hand. After every few measures he pulled his hand back, shook his fingertip close to his hip, examined them and kept playing. I then peered down at the ground directly below his busy hands. There were small, round, dark drops scattered around his feet.
“That can’t possibly be blood,” I thought to myself, as my concern grew greater. I was worried about Andy but was equally worried about what Mr. Rio was going to think if that was blood all over his brand new bass. I figured it was just sweat and tried not to think about it. The music spiraled upward and climaxed. Another round of applause was followed by a crowd that gathered around my little music maker. He was smiling and laughing and proudly showing of his right hand. One of the trumpet players, who we had not seen play yet, stretched out his arms and embraced Andy who was now omitting steam from under his wet t-shirt.
“Yew plae widt thiz,” Passionate Pedro said protecting his heart. “Mos plae widt cabesa bit yew, yer hoe hart.” I thought he was going to cry. I took this as a sign that Andy had successfully accomplished what he set out to do, redefine himself as a Latin Bass God. He swallowed from his bottle and came back to our table.
I looked at his hand, which was now wrapped in napkins. “Are you alright? Did you cut your fingers or something?”
“Ummmm, yeah. You could say that. I just left all my finger tips in the strings of his bass.” The blood was now seeping out the wrinkles in the napkin. “I wanted to wipe it down but he just grabbed it back.”
We sat there as we watched Mr. Rios hands run up and down all four strings, Andy’s plasma and all.
andy playing at cuates y cuetes a few nights later
sustenance |ˈsəstənəns| noun food and drink regarded as a source of strength; nourishment : poor rural economies turned to potatoes for sustenance. • the maintaining of someone or something in life or existence : he kept two or three cows for the sustenance of his family | the sustenance of democracy. ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French soustenance, from the verb soustenir (see sustain ).
We have discovered a true wonder in Puerto Vallarta….the taco stand. . Notto and I ate exclusively from them from Laredo, TX to Puerto Vallarta, and the first time Kirsten and I walked by one when we were hungry, I made my move and converted her. I felt a little bit like a vampire choosing someone to join me in eternal damnation, but the memory of the taste on my tongue eclipsed my better judgment. From that moment on, we were both ruined and there was no turning back.
From a distance, it is a cart with propane tank beside it with people working in it and beside it and a few people happily munching on various types of tacos. Typically, this is a two person operation on the street. One person doing the cooking, (usually una mujer) and one person collecting the money and attending to the drinks (usually un hombre.) The different varieties of tacos are indicated on hand-written signs posted on the carts. The signs say words like tacos de tripa, quesadillas, burritas, mariscos, adobada, asada, camarrones, etc….we are just learning what some of these words mean. So far, we know that Kirsten and I both enjoy tacos de bisteck, and I really like adobada…I think that might be pork. The tortillas are usually corn tortillas, made that day, and are freshly warmed when you order. The meat is not ground, but marinated and grilled or roasted to perfection and then chopped into tiny little taco-sized pieces. They are then topped with onions and cilantro and passed off to you. You then have several choices to make….the red sauce or the green? Salsa or guacamole? A squeeze of lime, perhaps? I like to mix it up and do each one differently, because that’s how I roll. Kirsten seems to like consistency from taco to taco and the red sauce is her flavor of choice. I encourage experimentation when taming the taco stand. Confusion and unpredictability can be strong allies.
Perhaps the clincher on the our enthusiasm with the taco stands, in addition to the raging party in our mouths after consuming said tacos, is the fact that we can walk away from the taco stand filled to the gills for 60 to 80 pesos. It ends up being cheaper than cooking at home, most times. Of course, I’m ignoring the obvious question of ‘what makes it so cheap?’….I”m thinking that there is some magical store where natives can shop and get the sweet deal, but we would be nabbed by federales if we were to even attempt to seek out such a place. I mean, we’ve been privy to gringo pricing all along. Why would groceries be any different?
Today may be bringing us to a sad realization, however. This morning Kirsten notices something on my skin that she said means I might have high cholesterol, and she woke up feeling like she might vomit….maybe the taco diet is not working so well. I ate breakfast there again this morning.
VIVA LA TACO STAND!!!!
fiesta
noun ( fiestas )
1 especially in Spain and Latin America: a religious festival with dancing, singing, etc.
2 any carnival, festivity or holiday.
It has been a long two weeks. Longer than anticipated. Some things we have learned so far since moving to Puerto Vallarta.
1. Always make sure you know where the bus you are riding is going.
We ended up in some little village where we were told to get out and walk a mile to the nearest sign of civilization.
2. Any promised time to accomplish anything is actually off by 2.5 days.
3. Do not take money that is ripped or torn. It is no bueno. Fuck you very much cab driver.
4. You must put a deposit down for water, you can not just take the giant plastic bottle without one to return.
5. We SHARE the gas with Ms.C meaning our property managers don’t know shit.
6. When in doubt just hand them some Pesos.
7. Have empathy for those who live in the states who can’t speak the language.
Below are some photos taken from the local Fiesta we attended with Ms.C post THE WORM.
cockroach |ˈkäkˌrō ch | noun a beetlelike insect with long antennae and legs, feeding by scavenging. Several tropical species have become established worldwide as pests in homes and food service establishments.
• Suborder Blattodea, order Dictyoptera: many genera and species, including the oriental cockroach ( Blatta orientalis) and the American cockroach ( Periplaneta americana); some, esp. in the genus Ectobius, are small temperate species that live outdoors.ORIGIN early 17th cent.(as cacaroch): from Spanish cucaracha. The spelling change was due to association with cock 1 and roach 2 .
Okay, so we have this neighbor who lives above us. I would guess she is late forties, early fifties. Upon our first encounter she seemed rather nice, yet a bit jaded and nervous. Her voice crinkles words and her eyes wince a bit from contact. She is attractive, Canadian, and bizarre. When I say bizarre I mean she clearly has a past that has made her this way. Perhaps kinky and reckless and involving people that I’ve probably seen in the news. Let’s call her Ms.C.
Last night Andy decided to make dinner, lemon chicken with couscous and brussel sprouts. Now, this seems easy but I must admit that at the moment we only have two burners that we could take with anywhere and plug in. I was in the bedroom trying to exercise Myla because our vet said that she needs some cardio. She actually wrote on her health certificate, “Mildly Obese.” I heard Andy talking to Ms.C in the hallway before closing the front door and cautiously peering into the bedroom.
“Hey, so I invited Ms.C to dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s alright I guess,” I said picking the cat up and forcing her to move her body forward.”
“Well, she appeared to be drunk so maybe she’ll just pass out or forget all together,” he retorted reaching for the laser pointer.
I stopped for a minute lowering my voice like a gossiping teenager, “Ms.C was D R U N K?”
Andy swirled the red dot around the floor but the cat simply laid there and waited until it got close enough swipe at. “I don’t know. She smelled like stale beer and was staggering a bit.”
“Sweet,” I said pushing the cat around the floor with my foot. “Maybe we’ll get some dirt.”
About an hour had past and the smell of garlic and lemon was now spilling into the bedroom where I was attempting to repair my DVD burner which was beyond repair. I heard a tapping on the front door followed by the clanging of glass. I let Ms.C in and escorted her to the kitchen where she presented a bottle of vino blanco (white wine) and a smaller bottle containing an amber colored liquor and a dead worm.
“Ms.C’s ready to get ripped,” I thought to myself as I placed the bottles on the counter.
We all made some small talk about the neighborhood, difficulties with the property manager and Hank, the alpha-male rooster who chooses to begin his crowing at about 6am right below our window. There were some light laughter followed by some awkward pauses, followed by shots of the mescal to make the pauses less awkward. These shots included everyone but me, meaning Andy and Ms.C.
By the time dinner was served Ms.C was swaying, Andy was amused and I was mildly irritated.
“I usted be a food crrritic,” piped Ms.C following up with a hiccup. This was the third time she told us of her cuisine expertise “This is reeely good.”
Andy was relieved because somehow during the course of the night he developed concern that the food might not meet the standard of Ms.C. At this point we could have fed her Meow Mix burritos and she would not have known the difference. She did begin dusting off some skeletons and dropping them on the table. She went on to explain that she was here living off the monthly money she got out of her wealthy 2nd husband and that she was rooming with her 1st husband up until the move. She shared the fact that her daughter said she was not coming to visit because she was in Asia with her “might as well be husband” and that she was concerned for her mother. “Shocker.” The less liquor in the bottles the more room there was left in the closet.
“God, it is so hot,” she exclaimed frantically fanning her braless chest. “Ya knooow. They said it woood be nise and cool because we lived neeer tha river. Fuck that. It’s a creek and it’s filled with trash.”
She had a point.
Ms.C grabbed the near empty bottle of tequilla and tried focusing her wandering left eye on Andy. “Okay. Yuv gotta eat the worm. I cannt eat the wurm. THe last time I ate the worm I was the worm. I was the worrrm all over and my frenndz have to carry me.”
It did not take much convincing. The faster he ate the worm the faster she could get the hell upstairs. He opened his throat and down it went. And then we sat. Waiting. Staring. Forcing smiles of contentment. “Letz listen to this. Weee didn’t even lisn to it.”
“We did Ms.C. We already went through this CD twice. It was good,” I said assuming she’s get it. “I am really tired. It’s time for me to go to bed. But, next time you come over we can lis. . .”
“The nusct time you cuum oveeer,” she totally cut me off AND mimicked me in a condescending drunk high-pitched voice. “Yur grlfriened is nawt looking happpy. Letzz go to the festiva Andy cuz you ate the weerrrm,” she said trying to whisper only loud enough so I heard every word. Andy declined the offer.
“I used to be a grooooopie ya know.”
Andy tried hard not to laugh. “You are only a groupie if you sleep with the band.”
Ms.C thought for a moment. “I WAS a grooopie. I meeen I didn’t sleep with all of em but I did, yeah i was a groopie.” And with that she miraculously cradled her wine bottle in her arm and stumbled towards the door. We said our goodnights and locked the door behind her. We were in bed all of a minute before we heard the crash of several objects. Glass, a shoe and a human. Andy checked on her and quickly came back to bed.
I imagine it was around 3am when awoke. It was supposed to be just awake enough to readjust my position and fall back asleep. I turned onto my left side and curled my right leg into Andy’s torso knee nook. I felt a light breeze come through the window that seemed move my hair, lightly tickling my neck. The tickle then moved down towards my throat. That was not the wind nor my hair. I reached my hand up to where my adam’s apple would be, if I had a penis, only to graze the back of a seemingly large arthropod. In other words, “A REALLY BIG COCKROACH!”
“AhhhhhhhhhhEWWWWWW!!!” I catapulted off the springs of the mattress, over Andy’s body and into the chair on the other side of the room. I shook the now imaginary family of bugs off of my clothing.
Andy, now experiencing an adrenalin high, was on his feet as well. “What, What?” He spotted the large bug, scurrying to get away. He grabbed the closest sandal and slammed it into the bug like the man that he is, defending his woman.
After inspecting the sheets and closest wall for any of his friends, we returned to the bed. I began to giggle. Again, “Shocker.” We finally fell back to sleep.
It had to have been around 7am when the first one exploded. Shortly after 3 more. The loudest of all the firecrackers. The ones that sound like cannons? Yeah those. Four of them. Loud and painful and right outside our window. They had been going off occasionally during the day to celebrate Fiesta, but this was the first wake-up call. The cats were wigging, scrambling to seek shelter from the bombs. Dogs were howling which, of course, got Hank all fired up. That encouraged the rest of the damn roosters to join him. And more cannons.
I covered my head with the pillow and turned my face towards Andy, “Well, this has got to be good for Ms.C’s headache.”
Andy took these pics “incognito” of me and Ms.C
thief |θēf| noun ( pl. thieves |θēvz|) a person who steals another person’s property, esp. by stealth and without using force or violence. ORIGIN Old English thīof, thēof, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch dief and German Dieb, also to theft .
Did you know that the company Fed Ex actually specializes in bending their customers over the counter and anally penetrating them over and over again until their cry? Yes, it’s in fact the truth and I have had the pleasure of receiving such express service in the past week. Because I own so much shit (and how have I accumulated so much shit, might I ask? Seriously, everything I owned after the house fire with my father just 11 years ago fit in a medium sized Honda Acccord. Now everything I own fits in 1 overstuffed Smart Box in Richmond, a tin box called storage in the Outer Banks, about 11 boxes in my aunt’s basement, a couple more boxes at my parents house, half of the back of Andy’s Subaru station wagon, and 2 extra large suitcases each weighing over 70 pounds that I had to pay extra for at the airport.) 3 boxes had to be shipped via Fed Ex. Not much in the boxes: some clothes, shoes and office supplies. Take a guess how much that cost me. $100? That is a great guess, but no. $200? Still would be better than what I paid. Yes folks, that’s right! You too can get up the ass for a mere $314.72. But wait, that is not where it gets good. I was supposed to receive my boxes yesterday but they did not arrive and no little “it’s at our office” note was left on our oversized door wooden door. So I decided to head over to the PV cafe, our current internet headquarter where they know us by the beer we drink, and use the tracking number to locate my boxes.
” Hmmmmmmmmm, that’s funny,” I thought to myself staring at the computer screen. “This says that my boxes were in Guatalajara and have been sent back to Richmond, Va.”
Andy shot me the, “Oh shit, please don’t freak out in the middle of this crowded internet cafe” look. I could see him referencing his internal index of WHAT AND WHAT NOT TO SAY TO KEEP YOUR WOMAN CALM.
“It’s okay,” he said doing his best to keep my voice low. “Let’s just figggre this out. You cancall (meant to be read as one word) thum right noooow.”
We had been at the local musicians locale where Andy showcased his skills at a Latin Jam. He played good and hard. So hard in fact he ripped the skin off his two right fingers leaving blood on the wood and skin hanging off the grooves of the strings. Apparently borrowing a cheap bass can damage his magic hands. He drank to celebrate the impression he made and dull the sting. By the time my eyes had fixated on the words RETURNED TO SENDER, I had no patience for slurred speech.
After snapping at Andy, retracting the snapping at Andy and ordering a Negro Modelo I spoke to a customer service representative. I spoke to someone, who told me there was nothing that could be done, I immediately requested a supervisior. (Thank you Mormor for teaching me persistance.) Long story short, the people at customs need a copy of my papers. The Fed Ex guy in RIC should’ve told me that. He didn’t. I’m fucked. They are working on getting that fixed.
giggle |ˈgigəl| verb [ intrans. ] laugh lightly in a nervous, affected, or silly manner : they giggled at some private joke | [as adj. ] ( giggling) three giggling girls. noun a laugh of such a kind. • ( the giggles) continuous uncontrollable giggling : I got a fit of the giggles.
She sits there. She is aqua in color. You can just see how lonely she is. Poor, sad, tired old Escort station wagon. It’s better this way I think. Let me, for a minute, depict a trip to town in good ole’ Mary for you. I must mention that I have no idea what Andy has named his god forsaken car but Mary seems like a fitting one. First off. . . . the road, no wait . . . hill; better yet mountain that we must climb and descend in the vehicle has never been leveled for the purpose of driving. It is made up of rock and pineapples, diapers and twigs. I even saw a few chicken bones mixed up with the dirt the other day. The decline is so steep that it actually bends inwards and upside down requiring passengers to tighten their seatbelts and hold their breath. Seriously. For the majority of the ride, and I use the word ride like in the Carnival sort of way, Andy is required to straddle the cavernous holes that make up this road in which we must travel. This is about the time when I only watch through the spaces between my fingers stretched across my face. This is because I know what is coming next. There is a bolder. Damn the bolder and it’s sharp, jagged fingers pointing upward. It sits smack dab in the middle of the road. As we trek downward the bolder forcefully drags itself up the entire length of Mary’s vagina. She makes the most excruciating sound, as one might expect. This is not the end. Once reaching a seemingly normal stretch of road Andy is required to maneuver around all sorts obstacles including trash, holes in the earth, small Mexican boys carrying sandwich bags of orange liquid, suicidal taxi cabs and Latin livestock not to exclude donkeys and chickens. Most importantly he must pay special attention to the giant speed bumps that appear without reason or warning. These are not normal speed bumps. They grow in size the closer you get. Andy hit a bump so hard it launched Mary two and a quarter feet into the air where her only choice was to take the pavement mouth first upon reentry. She lost 3 teeth and bruised her throat.
We reserve taking Mary out only when absolutely necessary. The bus system is phenomenal and much easier on the tailbone. Well that is for me, not necessarily for Andy at the moment. I will explain.
We love our apartment. Who can complain about waking up every morning, looking out the window and seeing, as Andy describes it, “ a jungle on the side of a mountain.” There have just been a few things we have had to deal with. Well, we still have no hot water. We have called Noemi, our property manager, but no luck so far. Currently we have an indescribable funk the smells a bit like vinegar staining our skin that a cold shower doesn’t seem to tackle. Last night we were dealing with two things, the lights and open windows. I was changing all the light bulbs from sanitarium ice white to a softer eggshell while Andy was putting up the mosquito screen in the living room. The only way for him to reach the window was to stand about 3 feet off the ground on our built in windowsill. The only way I could reach the lights was to balance myself on a chair on top of another chair. I was attempting to change the bulb inside our hanging Mexican hat light when the bulb between my boobs fell, exploded against the concrete floor resulting in me pulling too hard on the bulb in the hat, which also broke.
“Fuck,” I yelled, carefully tip-toeing into the living room only to find Andy on the floor.
The confusion was more than my brain could deal with. I saw our only working lamp in three pieces on the floor, a hammer still clutched in his right hand and Andy lying motionless, except his eyelids, on the ground. I thought I was the one who just had an accident.
“Ummmmm, are you okay? What the hell happened?”
It took him a minute to speak. Slowly his lips separated and sound came out, “I thought there was a chair behind me. There wasn’t. I stepped back. I fell directly on my ass bone. I might not be okay. I really don’t want to know.”
I felt them come up. There was nothing I could do. It was unavoidable like the time I accidentally ate bananas and had to go to the bathroom and stick my finger down my esophagus and throw them back up. The giggles were present. There were inappropriate and appeared to be anything but sympathetic but I couldn’t help it. It happens every time someone has fallen, or tripped or slipped, as long as I know they are going to be okay. I couldn’t stop giggling. I held my face straight but my cheeks met my lashes and the giggle tears started building up.
“Noooo. That’s great. Laughing. Of course you’re laughing.”
“I’m sorry. Are you okay? I’ll help you up,” I managed to get out before the laughing become harder.
Appalled he began to move,“Nope. I’m fine. You just sit there and laugh. I’ve got it from here. I could be seriously hurt and you are just there laughing at me.”
“I’m so sor. . ,” I tried.
He cut me off before I had a chance, “No. There’s no use apologizing now.”
We left the window unfinished for the rest of the night.
travel |ˈtravəl| verb ( -eled , -eling ; also chiefly Brit. -elled, -elling) 1 [ intrans. ] make a journey, typically of some length or abroad : the vessel had been traveling from Libya to Ireland | we traveled thousands of miles. • [ trans. ] journey along (a road) or through (a region) : he traveled the world with the army. • [usu. as adj. ] ( traveling) go or be moved from place to place : a traveling exhibition. • informal resist motion sickness, damage, or some other impairment on a journey : he usually travels well. • be enjoyed or successful away from the place of origin : accordion music travels well.
I can feel two small beads of sweat slowly following the lines of my back. And just for the record, I rarely sweat. Andy’s body, on the other hand, pushes water out through his pores hourly like a sprinkler on a timer. If we can find one we’re just going to attach a squeegee to his left hip and a dry rag to his right. It is hot, very hot. Also, it is incredibly humid. It is almost impossible to avoid the bizarre Vallarta scent hovering over our damp skin. I do not recall it being quite so hot just six weeks ago. We are hoping that the anticipated rain will invite a much needed temperature relief.
The trip from Washington DC to Puerto Vallarta was a stressful one for a black feline in particular. Even after double the suggested dose of happy drugs Ani, my cat-a-la-paranoia, spent much time trying to dig her way out of the small nylon travel bag I got at Wal-Mart for about $20. As you can imagine, the durability of a small nylon anything from Wal-Mart for $20 is extremely low. In an attempt to prevent the cat’s claws from ripping right through the front of her carrier I foolishly placed my hand in front of it during our take-off from Washington to Charlotte. I wasn’t quite sure at first what exactly was piercing through my finger. At first it felt like a tooth, narrow and sharp, determined to exit out the other side but in an instant the object turned upward towards the palm of my hand; mind you this was all happening beneath my skin on a very crowded plane. My breath instantly escaped the confines of my lungs. The involuntary urge to scream the breath back into my mouth struggled with the desire not to freak out the young woman sitting to the right of me. With my left hand I grabbed the demon paw and squeezed as hard as I could until the talon withdrew. I immediately pushed the wound between my lips and began sucking. It was the kind of blood that is rushing so quickly that it’s blue before it’s red. Eventually the bleeding stopped and I feel asleep.
Upon landing I grabbed my currier bag and swung it over my left shoulder leaving my wounded hand to grab hold of the cat carrier. As I reached the gate to our next flight I could feel something was just not right. After releasing the handle from my grip I realized my ailing finger was now the size of a kosher dill and swelling. I could see the blood pulsing, fighting for a place to reside but nowhere to go because the puncture holes had grown a thin layer of skin over already. I asked some very nice people wearing a bit too much neon writing on their clothing if they could watch my things, including the cat carrier that was now swaying and meowing, and I ran over to get some ice from TGIFuck this hurts a lot.
We both made it to Puerto Vallarta safely although both a little stressed and I am sure overtired. Although I received a green light at the customs checkpoint and yes I mean literally, you push a button and wait for the stoplight to illuminate red or green to determine your fate, I was waved over to the counter check point. By this time Ani was attempting to escape through a small hole she had made and was forcefully throwing her face into it. My finger was throbbing, the cat was wailing and I could not locate my paperwork. There was a lot of Spanish being used to describe the things in my suitcases. After some, “I don’t know what the fuck you are saying,” looks they just shooed my along. A very kind man in all white pushed my cart of bags along side of me.
I saw Notto first making some deal with the man behind the immigration window. Notto is Andy’s friend who courageously signed up to do the drive with Andy from Richmond to PV. He pointed through the crowd of eager time-share vultures. I saw Andy standing in-between a rather heavyset Mexican woman with two children hanging from her wrists and a pile of smaller Mexican men carrying signs with English jargon scrolled across them. He lifted his brows upon recognition, grabbed my hand and stumbled backward.
“Jesus let’s get the fuck out of here!”
Let us not forget the heat and sweat because 3 days ago was not different than today.
“Why are you so sweaty?” I asked, realizing as the words came out of my mouth that there was no need to ask that question. I bit the lower right quadrant of lip and smiled to get myself out of the little hole I just dug for myself.
With an irritable smirk he simply glanced over at me, “Are you kidding me? It’s hot as shit Kirsten!”
I began laughing that uncontrollable “I know I am just making it worse” laugh. By this time Notto had caught up to the car with a small look of concern. I asked Andy to pay the nice man in all white some pesos as he removed his cart from underneath my bags. Just as Andy went to grab the first handle I warned him of the weight of the bag attached.
“What in God’s name do you have in this bag?” he asked using both biceps, triceps and whatever muscles you have in your back.
Attempting to aid in someway I leaned my hand against the trunk edge, “Hey, they only charged me for one overweight bag at the airport because the guy felt bad that I also had to pay for Ani.”
As we headed towards Paso Ancho Andy and Notto filled me in on their drive, the taco stands, this strange hotel that required driving into their own garage and three channels of porn on the TV, how while driving through the Mexican switchbacks poor Myla was jostled from one end of the car to the other and never let out a peep and how they were both now illegally in the country.
“WHAT?!?”
“Ummmmm, yeah. So we never received any papers at the border and we have no hot water at the apartment,” Andy said making a right up the hill.
gratitude |_grat__t(y)o_d| |_grød__t(j)ud| |_grat_tju_d|
noun
the quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness : she expressed her gratitude to the committee for their support.
ORIGIN late Middle English : from Old French, or from medieval Latin gratitudo, from Latin gratus ‘pleasing, thankful.’
There is a certain calm when leaving a place you’ve called home for many years. Perhaps it is the consequence of denial. Not denial like, “If I only eat half the bag of Oreos then only one of my ass cheeks will take the hit and then I can just work out that one cheek for a couple of days and it will be like I never ate those 48 cookies” but denial like something is happening right in front of you however you are unable to register it as a part of your new reality.
A city is just that, a city. It is made up of cement and steel, cobblestone and iron. Avenues lead to boulevards; boulevards lead to streets and streets to highways. Business deals downtown and shopping steals uptown; children are bustled from bedrooms to classrooms by way of a big yellow bus and every Sunday the sidewalks roll out to welcome the sinners seeking forgiveness in a pew. Aside from ascetic difference a city is just that, a city; regardless of where on the maps it lies.
What makes a city more than just a city? Splitting a bottle of red zinfandel at the wine bar on Cary Street on a hot night in July. Sharing a steaming plate of brocoletti at Mamma Zu’s with conversation and confessionals. An unexpected phone call that requires cocktails and hot wax to ease the pain of a broken heart. Elephant sized tears overshadowed by whole-belly laughter. Ridiculous jokes with punch lines that make no sense to anyone but those who were there. The “verb followed by noun” names used to refer to them and theirs by you and yours. Sounds that remind you of people, tastes that remind you of places and smells that remind you of things you once forgot. A thousand songs you’ve heard from just one stage and one friend you heard a thousand songs with. What makes a city more than just a city is you and what gives it meaning to you. It is all the people attached to it, all the places within it and all the things inside it. Richmond is more than just a city. Richmond is my home that I will miss for many more years than I spent making it just that. I will miss every face I recognize and even the ones that I don’t. I will long for endless dinners with my girlfriends that never have anything to do with the hunger for food. I will yearn for all the smells and sounds and tastes of this fabulous city that I’ve had the privilege of calling my own.
I am so very grateful for every single person that has made my experience in Richmond such an amazing one. I came to Virginia when I was only 22 with not a single friend. I leave at age 30 with an uncountable number of friends whom have made Richmond more than just a city. For that, I say thank you.
Below are some photos I took of some wonderful friends and family I had to opportunity to hang with before I left. I appreciate all of the efforts of my loved ones for making the time to spend with me.
