2 DAYS IN THE COUNTRY (DAY TWO)

TUESDAY, 21 OCT. 2014
LA BANDA, MEXICO

Veering off the two-lane blacktop, we follow a ragged gravel trail--bumpy as a dragon's backside--through miles of rolling sagebrush and cactus country.

Ahead, mountains glint in the afternoon light. Three times we ask directions from local campesinos and get similar, but slightly differing, advice each time. No maps to go by out here, and no GPS or cell towers either.

"I'm feeling real confident now," Lee drawls doubtfully.

We press on. We three men are jammed in the cab of the bucking, rattling pickup that has taken more hits than Joe Louis.  A few minutes on we come upon a large, insect-like earth-grading machine. For the mile or so we’re trapped behind the monster, we swallow dust and blink away tears.

When the big machine finally drops to the side to let us pass, the road itself vanishes and we plunge into a foaming streambed.  I look down and see the water boiling up white. With a lurch we shoot up the far bank and continue on the Road to Nowhere.

Just when I’m sure we’re lost, Lee recognizes an abandoned hacienda and old Indian chapel... and not too much later the tiny village of La Banda emerges in the middle of a cornfield and brace of trees: small adobe dwellings enhanced by a lively chorus of chickens and goats. We park against a chain-link fence before a squat stone schoolhouse.

“Buenas tardes!” a grinning woman shouts from the doorway.  Drowsily, a couple of dogs exchange places in the dusty schoolyard.

Lee, Saul, and I tumble out of the truck.  In the cab’s tight quarters for the past hour, there’s been enough male bonding to last a month.

We’ve come here on Rotary business: a planning meeting with residents’ committees from the two campo villages of La Banda and Montecillo de Nieto.  In the next few months, Rotary’ll be working with locals to construct new cisterns to provide clean drinking water.

Arrayed in a semicircle of chairs are two-dozen women and a few young children—the village men are still working in the fields, or they’re away up North, or gone.The meeting gets underway with small talk and jokes.

Saul’s brought his white board and uses colored markers to define project benchmarks and confirm leadership roles among the women of the two villages.  There are flashing smiles and pealing laughter. Meanwhile, a tiny girl and two young boys run around, playing tag.

With his easy smile, Saul’s really good at getting the women to open up, share their concerns, and give their personal insights. Dedicated to clarifying ideas and channeling unwieldy concepts into workable solutions, Lee takes copious notes in a log book and offers occasional comments to keep the group on track.

I watch the proceedings from the sidelines, unable to follow the rapid-fire Spanish.  But even though I can’t comprehend what’s being said, I soon grow attuned to following the ebb and flow of the conversation, like a sailor tracking the waves.

It’s a unique experience for me. The women—most are in their 20s and early 30s, but a number of village elders are present, too—are hardly shy about sharing their views. I watch them carefully, and what surprises me most, I think, is their confidence. In themselves and in what they hope to accomplish here tonight and in the future.

This confidence, I eventually come to understand, arises out of their endless struggle to make a better world for themselves and their kids.

The women of these two villages, miles apart, share a common thread of warmth and closeness and fellowship that is just magical.  The Rotary’s cistern project will bring them and their children fresh, clean drinking water, something they lack right now. That’s the motivation for them to attend organizing meetings like this one for the past two years.  But it’s just a start.  And a good one at that.

Like parents everywhere--rich, poor, or in-between--they’re hoping to keep their children safe, strong, smart, and healthy, and by the time the meeting’s over I’m convinced that nothing in this world is going to stop these mothers from trying to achieve their aims. Not the rigors of living  out here on the very edge of the map. And not the trivial machinations of the powerful in government and industry who strive to marginalize them even more. These women won’t let that happen.

After a potluck-style dinner of warm tacos, beans, and rice served in the schoolhouse, it’s time to head out. Evening has fallen. As we walk toward Lee’s pickup, I’m surprised to see a dozen women and their kids sitting in the open rear bed. Lee explains we’re taking those who’d earlier traveled by rural camion from Montecillo to attend the meeting back home.

The air is crisp, the night subterranean, the road carved with ruts so deep I feel like that wave-tossed sailor once more—but the sounds of laughter and endless light-hearted chatter from behind us strike me as clear and profound as church bells on Sunday morning. To my ears it sounds like a call for the world to right itself.

.     .     .     .     .     .     .

Anybody with half a brain can make easy pronouncements about the two faces of Mexico--the urban rich and the rural poor.

But if one point is perfectly clear after witnessing first-hand the extremes of living in our patch of this country, I would suggest this one: Family is what counts here. Whether rich or poor, the Mexican people want something better for their children. And they want to give it to them through their own--not by gringo outsider or even government--inititative.

Whether it’s through teaching competitive skills at the Otomi Grand Prix or ensuring their villages of La Banda and Montecillo get clean drinking water, parents at either end of the economic spectrum will do whatever’s necessary to give their kids a fighting chance in life.

Let’s pray that these children from very different economic realities today can, in the next generation, stand together to achieve a stronger and more unified and equitable country.

(The first part of "2 Days in the Country" was published last week and is available in my previous blog post below.)

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta

Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

2 DAYS IN THE COUNTRY (DAY ONE)

FRIDAY, 17 OCT. 2014
OTOMI LAND, MEXICO

A lovelier setting cannot be imagined. The morning is exquisite, as is the slice of Mexican society on display.

The sky is colored what should be nominated as the next “Pantone Color of the Year”: San Miguel de Allende Blue.  Glistening stone fountains, lawns lush as Irish heather, towering cactus plants, and well-tended ornamental beds make this few hundred acres a horticulturalist’s dream.  A soft breeze has been whispering magical canticles all morning.

I’ve found myself at the Otomi Lakes & Villas, an exclusive residential community and equestrian center set along the Presa Allende, a pleasant five-minute drive from our fair city. The Otomi Indians were the original inhabitants of these parts, and I doubt they ever dreamed of a legacy so grand.

It’s the first day of the Otomi Grand Prix Horse Show. This painstakingly
manicured event features the best Mexican riders vying for top honors during three days of horse jumping competitions. Horse-owners, riders, families, and friends (and at least one plebeian interloper like me) have convened from all parts of Mexico for what promises to be an unforgettable experience.

Riders of all ages—nine to forty-nine--are set to test their horse hurdling skills against each other.  Neat assemblages of designer trophies, to be presented to top performers, gleam on tables in the Trojan sunlight.  Awards go to the riders only.

Otomi Lakes & Villas really is something special. Houses sell for millions of U.S. dollars and feature every amenity the average drug lord’s family covets (there have been rumors but, then again, in Mexico there are always rumors). Even with their swimming pools and Roman fountains and Spanish gardens, built-in theaters and exercise rooms, and 24-hour security guards, these elegant domiciles don’t have much over the horse stables (part of the equestrian center).

That’s an exaggeration, of course. But in fact the stables are way more luxurious than the rustic adobe hutches most of Mexico’s 56 million rural poor inhabit. The stables have clean, running water, electric lighting, and land line phone service for starters.

Everyone’s waiting for the competition to begin.

Those gathered here today are youngish, urbane, vibrant, and… well, damned beautiful.

Proudly displayed are some naturally attractive faces, wonderfully coiffed hair, and well-toned bodies--as well as numerous examples of the latest achievements in abdominoplasty, blepharoplasty, breast augmentation, reduction, or lift, buttock augmentation or lift, chemical peel, lip enhancement, rhinoplasty, rhytidectomy, genioplasty, and liposuction, not to mention tactically advantageous injections of collagen or hyaluronic acid…

I could be sitting on the film set of “The Rich and Famous of Latin America.” Worse yet, I’m the only one wearing gym shorts and sneakers!

Everybody else is dressed in their best equestrian attire: dark vests, white pants, black leather boots, leather gloves, and riding helmets that look sharp but offer as much protection as a paper napkin. Some of the higher ranking men wear formal club jackets, cream shirts, and bold neckties.

Many parade around as if they’re posing for photographs, which they are since a bevy of hired photographers scurry about the different venues, attempting to immortalize every moment. Everyone’s a potential focal point for tomorrow’s El Universal or next year’s club brochure.

Stirring “We are the Champions”-style music—played in their original English versions—blares from loudspeakers planted atop the judges’ stands. You can’t help but be inspired, even if you normally don’t like being within kicking distance of any horse’s hooves.

At one point while the competitions are going full-throttle, a bright-yellow helicopter swooshes by overhead like an angry wasp. It settles down in a nearby field. After discharging some VIPs the machine buzzes off in a cloud of dust, making the return trip to--where? Guanajuato, Guadalajara, the D.F?  Nobody else in the crowd even seems to notice.

In the first arena, a stunning Arabian stallion and young rider have just earned a near-perfect score by navigating all the jumps within the time limit and without a stumble. In response, there’s only scattered applause. It’s a tough crowd.

Under voluminous white canvas hospitality tents, uniformed staff busily serves gourmet hot dogs and hamburgers and skinny glasses of champagne. Other servers, white towels draped over a forearm, portage trays of lesser fair like sweets and salted crisps and energy drinks to those of us seated in the covered grandstands.

As well configured as the competitors and their families and friends are, they actually pale in comparison to the beauty of the horses themselves. These sleek Arabian, Appaloosa, and Iberian breeds are so mannerly, so noble-looking, and so handsome it occurred to me that any one of them would make an amusing dinner companion for an evening at Hank’s New Orleans Café and Oyster Bar. (I’m sure nobody’ll mind.)

Even I can appreciate these creatures’ ageless beauty and grace. I bet you that most horse owners envy the truly august lineages of their animals, wishing they were similarly endowed.

The kids—young male and female riders—start to fascinate me. Anxious parents watch as their teenage sons and daughters--atop full-grown stallions, for God’s sake, with nothing but a paper napkin for head protection--negotiate the challenging hurdles.  Weirdly, it reminds me of my former days as a Little League coach in Philly. Like my fellow parents, I cheered our kids’ every pitch, hit, or catch with unhinged fervor--just like the parents of the young riders at the Otomi Grand Prix today.

Sure, these kids come from super-wealthy families. But all are natural beauties like most kids anywhere, and many of the youngest are really just children: painfully self-conscious and shy and quick to heed their parents’ calls to behave. They even act like kids much of the time, giggling and taunting each other playfully and eating too many candies and drinking too much Coca-Cola.

Still, it doesn’t take long before any keen observer notes that most are already beginning to be molded in their parents’ images. They are assuming the most well-turned-out and urbane features of their progenitors. In time, for sure, they’ll take on the same cool, calm, and deadly superior looks as their parents.  Attitudes and values will soon follow. But for now, they’re just like kids anywhere.  And I like them best for it.

Later, as I head on back to town, following an exquisitely tailored two-lane road inlaid with cobblestones, lined with rail fencing, and comforted by an unbroken canopy of trees, I had this evil thought: Whether they win or lose at the jumping competitions this weekend, the competitors and their families and friends at the Otomi Grand Prix are and always will be standing in Mexico’s winners’ circle.

And yet, and yet…. I still had much to learn.  I would be reminded of my short encounter with these children of wealthy families a few days later when I ventured a bit farther out into the countryside to visit a poor Mexican campo. An important lesson waited for me there, too.

Please continue with "2 Days in the Country (Day Two)," available online next week.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

RAISING THE DEAD

Mexicans are different from you and me...no more so than in the ways our societies prefer to think about death.

With Day of the Dead ("Dia de los Muertos") arriving at the end of this month, it's a good time to take a look at some of the beliefs and activities associated with one of the most popular holidays in Mexico.

For those of us given to morbid thoughts and solemn observances of death, this festival may seem to fly in the face of all that's sacred.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. To many specialists, Dia de los Muertos presents a much healthier outlook on the end of life and what lies beyond death.  One generalization worth considering: Mexicans love life and are undaunted by death in ways many of us northerners don't get.

The most familiar symbol of Dia de los Muertos are the calacas and calaveras (skeletons and skulls), which appear everywhere during the holiday in the form of candied sweets, parade masks, and dolls. These figures are almost always portrayed as enjoying life, often in fancy clothes and in entertaining situations.

Families visit grave sites to decorate the tombs where their ancestors lay, and offer food, drink and temporary altars. Believing that the dead would be insulted by mourning or expressions of sadness, they instead celebrate the lives of the deceased with family parties and activities the dead may have enjoyed in life. The dead are awakened from their rest to share happy times with their loved ones again--metaphorically speaking, at least.

Tombs and altars, lit by candles, offer bowls of water for the dead to drink and salt for their journey back to eternity. The living walk between the tombs and altars as children ask passersby for a piece of candy or pocket change. Bright flowers, loud music, colorful decorations, and fireworks displays are common. Mariachis serenade the gatherings for a small fee.

In certain areas of Mexico, mourners put a clay dog on the altar--a clear reference to the pre-Hispanic custom of killing a dog and incinerating it with the body of the deceased to help it on its way.

At some cemeteries in Mexico City, the holiday has become a full-fledged tourist attraction, and they even go so far as charging small attendance fees.

Although observed throughout Latin America, Dia de los Muertos is most strongly associated with Mexico, where the tradition originated. To be precise, there are two separate observances--Day of the Little Dead, for children, on November 1, and Day of the Adult Dead, on November 2.

The holiday combines indigenous Aztec ritual with Catholicism, brought to the region by Spanish conquistadors. (Dia de los Muertos is celebrated on All Saints Day and All Souls Day, holidays in the Catholic calendar.)

Family and friends are significantly more important to Mexicans than to most of us northerners, and this significance carries into death as well. The goings-on can seem extravagant by our more reserved standards. But in fact, Dia de los Muertos recognizes death as a natural part of the human experience, a continuum with birth, childhood, and growth through adulthood.

Some ethnologists claim that Dia de los Muertos is an important part of Mexico's national identity. Some even feel it must be protected against the incursion of northern observances like Halloween. Whether or not Halloween is an actual threat to Dia de los Muertos, a sense of national pride is definitely emerging.

So, Dia de los Muertos endures. In death, as in life, Mexicans have a sense of fatalism that permeates all facets of their being. They also practice traditions that are hundreds if not thousands of years old. Without them Mexico would not be the colorful country it is.

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

CRY, THE BELOVED COUNTRY

         

Last Sunday, we returned from a month-long sabbatical up north. We came back to the warm embraces from friends and the perfect weather of San Miguel at this time of the year.

Heartbreakingly, we also returned to grisly reports of a massacre of diabolical proportions. Forty-three students from a rural college which helps impoverished young people become teachers disappeared on September 26. A few days later a mass grave was discovered holding 28 semi-burned bodies, which authorities say are not the remains of any of the missing students. 

This tragedy happened in the town of Iguala, in the nearby state of Guerrero, barely a five-hour drive from San Miguel, and just two from Mexico City. Local politicians and police officers allied with the drug cartels are blamed for the atrocity.

This latest massacre followed the executions of 22 young people in Tlatlaya, in the State of Mexico, in June. Eight army personnel are now under indictment for those crimes.

The monsters who commit such atrocities, tragically, are becoming the public face of Mexico, especially to Americans and Canadians considering vacationing, living, or doing business here, and are now thinking twice about it.  

My words, I understand, will anger many of our neighbors and friends.  

Thousands of foreigners have chosen to make our lives here, and many of us reside here year-round. We like this Spanish colonial city for its weather, culture, scenery, and easy-going ways. We have bought homes or run businesses here. Some of us are raising families.  We run NGOs and U.S.-based philanthropic organizations like Rotary and Lions. Though tireless efforts, many of us want to help make things better for the Mexican people.

So, news of these most recent murders was unwelcome.

A lot of expatriates don’t like to talk about the executions or the kidnappings or the fear that has become a daily reality for millions of Mexicans.  It’s easy to ignore or deny that such ghastly, violent acts may soon threaten our peaceful existence in this picture-postcard city in central Mexico. 

True enough, the violence can seem so far away from sunny, clubby San Miguel. The Mexican natives here are so friendly. The weather is perfect. The air is crystal-clear. The scenery is exquisite. Each week there is a multiplicity of events that celebrate high culture, world arts and music, foods, history, etc. We tell ourselves we’re safe from the drug wars and police corruption in our little pocket of peace and tranquility.

I’ve heard the arguments against making generalizations about how these violent attacks on civilians in other areas of Mexico are likely to affect that peace and tranquility.  

But let’s be honest. One only has to view the map of drug cartel strongholds recently published in The New York Times to start feeling jittery. At first blush, San Miguel and the Central Highlands stand out as an ostensible neutral zone between the pincers of great swaths of territory controlled by major rival drug gangs. These blood-tinged areas crush Mexico City and its environs and extend northward to the U.S.-Mexico border, from Cuidad Juarez to Matamoras. It’s not a pretty picture.  You have to wonder how long before the pincers will start closing down on us.

It may not be too much longer.

Last week, Hector Beltran Leyva, one of the most notorious Mexican drug lords still at large, was captured by soldiers at Mario's Seafood Restaurant in the San Antonio neighborhood of San Miguel, ironically one of the most popular areas for American and Canadian retirees residing here. Beltran Leyva and an associate were carrying military-issue handguns, but fortunately he was arrested without a shot being fired. 

While many local expats believe this is an isolated incident, it’s hard to ignore.

It’s also hard to ignore how the local weekly bilingual newspaper, Atencion, consistently under-reports crime statistics in our city. One brave American man, a multiple crime victim himself, has come under intense (verbal) fire for his outspokenness in questioning the official crime reports which the newspaper blithely runs. One way to look at it is that people are pissed off at him for drawing attention to reality.

When Mexican President Pena Nieto took office two years ago, he pledged to end a wave of violence that has killed about 100,000 people since 2007. To his credit, the national homicide rate has declined, but instances of kidnappings and extortion are up and the involvement of police in violence in such towns as Iguala has showcased the widespread corruption inside Mexico's security forces.

In San Miguel, similar trends have emerged. Instances of certain crimes are rising: Muggings. Burglaries. Robberies. Stabbings. Rapes. Kidnappings and extortion.  In many poorer neighborhoods surrounding San Miguel’s central historical district, it isn’t safe to walk the streets at night. And even in the well-protected so-called Centro Historico, you may be more vulnerable than you think. Last month the kindly lady from Atlanta house sitting for us while we were away was robbed by a taxi driver at 10 p.m., right in front of our house.

This overt criminality was never present before. Those of us who have been visiting for decades never felt such a high level of threat to our personal safety. No one is immune, and the ugly truth is leaking northward.

People involved in NGOs and American- and Canadian-run philanthropic groups are all whispering about how the “rich Texans” who traditionally form the bedrock of tourism and the “snowbird” economy in San Miguel just aren’t coming this year. Housing prices are falling dramatically. A lot of property remains unsold, and yet the developers keep pitching new exclusive housing developments. Who might be buying these new luxury properties, I wonder?

Many residents are still uncomfortable asking such questions or acknowledging the cold reality.

For sure, it’s a complicated matter, and there’s plenty of blame to go around. Some people blame the U.S. and its war on drugs for the appalling increase in human-rights abuses in Mexico. A few local boosters even claim it’s a deliberate plot by the U.S. government and media to discourage Americans from diverting revenues into Mexican tourism, commercial ventures, and real estate. Some say the local crime statistics are overblown and San Miguel is as safe as the mythical small town of Mayberry.  

It’s probably true that not only has the drug war made the already-lucrative drug trade more violent by increasing competition among the cartels. It also has established a network of state-crime alliances that can – and are – being used for political purposes.

The collusion of government and organized crime is so accepted in Mexico that it forms part of the structure and operations of both in many parts of the country. Many of the coastal cities are under near-complete cartel control, albeit underground and out of sight. And the lack of justice for crimes committed by members of this alliance is nothing new. Still, rarely have so-called public servants so openly attacked civilians as in the past couple of years.

The problem with this blatant corruption and violence is that they create a malodourous atmosphere everywhere. Stink of evil tends to spread and taint all life.  The stench weakens the very fabric of decency present in law-abiding societies.  And no one is immune from its effects.

Some people are choosing to take action.

To draw public support against the violence that has touched their lives, the parents of the missing students in Iguala have been holding vigil at a courtyard at the school. Thousands marched through the Mexican capital last Wednesday to demand the government find out what happened to the dozens of missing students. In Guerrero's capital of Chilpancingo, thousands more marched, blocking the highway that leads from Mexico City to the beach resort of Acapulco, another drug cartel stronghold.

A local group, Sanmiguelenses Unidos (Sanmiguelenses United), holds regular peace marches and sponsors neighborhood watches and information sharing to help raise people’s consciousness about the encroaching violence, particularly in the outlying colonias.

They’re making a good point, and hopefully making a difference. The longer we keep denying reality--these egregious crimes against humanity, the Mexican people we purport to love, respect, and support with our sympathies and dollars—the worse the problem will become.

The question is: How much worse can it get?  It’s time for us to stop living on cheerful platitudes and inanely believing that the so-far distant drug wars and police corruption won’t eventually consume us here in San Miguel.

For those of us who love this beautiful city and its people and want to do something to help improve their lives, who adore the Mexican culture and heritage, and who have been visiting this charming city for more 30 years and have witnessed the encroaching danger as one views an approaching tsunami, it truly is the saddest story ever told. 

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta

Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

MORNING BLOCK PARTY

Mornings are magical in San Miguel. As the peaks of La Sierra Madre Oriente catch fire, the downtown streets come alive. By 6:30 church bells are summoning worshippers for early mass. The city's trademark bright sunlight and blue skies never disappoint.

Finches and hummingbirds stop by to take a drink at our fountain.  Herons, egrets, and sometimes white-billed pelicans make their early forays from El Atascadero across the canyon to the marshlands bordering la presa. Likewise, children in their dark blue-and-white uniforms, guided by dutiful parents, start the morning trek to schools.

The sweet shops are already packed, and the cafes are just opening their doors as a cavalcade of delivery trucks start their morning runs. Stoops and sidewalks get their daily soaping. Pedestrians carefully pick their way beneath extended stone roof drains that discharge sparkling arcs of water into gutters and streets.

The Nahuatl women along Insurgentes have set up their tents and coal-fired burners and are already making fresh flautas, churros, tortas, and tortillas for the early crowd. There's an arresting sweet fragrance in the wind. Down on the Jardin, the street sweepers appear in their dark jump suits. Smartly dressed office workers check their watches and decide to get their Starbucks order to go.

Meanwhile, at the top of Calle Hospicio, the sound of a loud, clanging bell announces the arrival of the morning trash truck. I can set my watch by our daily pickup: 9:10 on the dot.

That's when everyone in our neighborhood comes pouring out of doorways, hauling their household garbage. Laugh if you want, it's sure to be one of the highlights of your day.

Trash collection is a social occasion in our colonial town. It provides one of the best opportunities to meet the neighbors, people from every social class imaginable.

Wiry youngsters clamor atop the garbage truck like sailors on a storm-tossed dinghy. At street level, a line of residents quickly forms behind the truck's tailgate, ready with their daily offering of bagged garbage.  Morning traffic begins backing up as some vehicles try to nip past the sudden bottleneck.There's always a lot of whistling and good-natured cat-calling.  A car honks impatiently. The men help the women, the young help the old. The operation has so many ritualistic aspects, it elevates the spirits like an ancient ceremony. Somebody's always late and comes running up with a black plastic bag just in the nick of time.

It's a hands-on operation: Your trash passes from your hands to the hands of the garbageman who stands high up at the open rear gate of the truck. "Buenos dias," is repeated so often, the greeting begins to sound like a chant.

It's a good time to meet the neighbors and discuss the weather or find out why the water supply was cut off last Wednesday. Some residents have their maids or housekeepers do the trash hauling for them, and these domestics have so much work ahead that they usually don't linger long. But for many of us it's a good time to listen and learn and maybe even startle others with our gringo-accented Spanish.

In our town recycling is encouraged but not enforced so few locals do it. (I have just heard of a private company that is offering recycling services for homes, but it's only now getting off the ground.) Instead, all the recycling takes place right on the rear bed of the garbage truck itself, as it trundles up and down the narrow, cobbled streets.

Here's how it works: Immediately after the one guy takes your garbage bag from you, he passes it off to another fellow, balanced right behind him on the truck, who painstakingly goes through your contribution, separating plastic, glass, metal, and paper from food wastes. Anything that might be repaired or rejuvenated--a burnt-out blender, busted baby carriage, cracked radio, as well as cast-off shoes, jumpers, kid's toys, and so on--is set in a special corner. Trash compaction is done manually by foot.

Then, with a symphony of clanging, shouting, and whistling, the lumbering trash truck moves down the street. In its wake, some residents of Hospicio linger on sidewalks or in nearby callejon Chiquitos, still joking and laughing and sharing stories of little global significance but of considerable personal import. It's a brief but sparkling highlight to the day.

Now, this is a block party, San Miguel-style.




© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

CHILDREN'S CRUSADE

We were returning from a day trip to Guanajuato, on that final stretch of two-lane blacktop into San Miguel, when a haggard ghost appeared in the road ahead.

"Who's that?" I asked Gary, the driver of the Ford Expedition.
  
Now we could see him. 

He was a 16-year-old kid in hobo rags--old clothes that had been turned black by the soot of railroads and the dirt of boxcars and sleeping on the ground. Slung over his shoulder was a filthy nylon sports bag. 

He put his hand out as we drew alongside.  Gary tossed him a few pesos through the window, and then we passed on. I saw dark eyebrows, a vacant stare. That evening I kept remembering that kid's blank, dead look.

Here was the face of America's child migration problem.


The number of unaccompanied children crossing the U.S.-Mexico border spiked 90 percent in the past year, with dire predictions of future increases.

Over the last nine months alone, more than 52,000 unaccompanied children have entered the U.S. illegally. They come mostly from the Central American countries of Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador, where drugs, gangs, poverty, persecution, unemployment, and violence prevail. 

During their months-long migration north, they pass along the spine of Mexico, riding the rails, hitching rides, stowing away on trucks and buses, walking.   

Meanwhile, the governors and many residents of American border states have reacted none too hospitably. President Obama and the U.S. Congress have put on hold all actions to address the crisis until after the midterm elections.

But I can’t wait until then to make up my mind. Since seeing that bedraggled kid on the road that day, I’ve been thinking about the issue of child migration, and I’ve been trying to decide which side I’m on. 

Do we enforce American immigration laws, stop the kids at the U.S. border, and send them packing? Or do we recognize their basic human rights and provide asylum and perhaps even a pathway to eventual integration into American society if not to citizenship?

Ultimately, only improved economic and security conditions in the children’s countries of origin can stem the flow. But given the chaotic trends in those regions, such improvements are no more than pipe dreams. The kids will continue to have few options.

So, that only leaves us—we Americans who understand that all children have basic human rights, and particularly should always be safeguarded from harm. And if no one else is willing to protect them, then why can’t it be us? 

Yes, I know to some of my countrymen we'd be playing right into "their" hands (the lawbreakers, the unaccompanied minors, the parents who in desperation keep sending their kids north for a better life). And we'd only be encouraging more kids to make the dangerous trek for hope of asylum. Suckers, we'd be called. I get it.

But I keep seeing that kid's face, and wondering if he realized what lay ahead for him on the long road. A better life, or anonymous death in a ditch somewhere? Or maybe just a ticket back home? What were the odds of anything good coming out of all his risks and efforts? Was figuring the odds even part of his thinking process? Or was it solely a matter of doing anything to escape from the bloody awful conditions back home, at any cost--and the odds be damned?

Now I want to tell him something reassuring. I want to tell him we are here to help.

We can do this. No one else has our history of doing so much good for the world's dispossessed. Every new wave of immigrants has helped to improve our country’s diversity, resilience, and strength.
  
So, why not us?  Why not now? Let’s be the heroes one more time.

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta                         

Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

CULTURE WARS

A fight broke out at the Angel Peralta Friday night.

I don't mean the Angel Peralta Cantina (if it even exists), but San Miguel's Teatro Angela Peralta, beloved venue for "the top echelon performing artists who come here year after year" to "love our little city and its people," according to Dirk Bakker, board of directors' president.

Dirk is probably right, but you might not have felt the love on the second-storey balcony at the 7 p.m. performance of chamber music by the Claremont Trio. The female musicians played minor works by Beethoven and Brahms and a haunting, plaintive piece by contemporary composer Judd Greenstein, and they played everything beautifully.

The trouble started as they struck the final chord of the second movement of Beethoven's Piano Trio en E-flat Major, Op. 1, No. 1.  

After the first movement, about half of the audience had applauded--with the best of intentions, of course,  but completely inappropriately. As any true music aesthete knows deep in his marrow, one only applauds at the end of the composition, which in this case is a four-movement piece.  Shucks.

But I couldn't help hearing a slight sigh of uneasiness, an irritable stirring, from a couple of patrons seated directly behind me. I didn't think much of it. After all, tiny lapses like "premature applause" happen all the time in my native Philadelphia, where citizens consistently vote the theme from "Rocky" as their favorite musical composition of all time. Most of us in the "city of brotherly love" lack the sophistication to care one way or another.

Very soon, the Claremont Trio was ripping into the second movement called "Adagio cantable." And it was at the end of this movement that--once again--some patrons spontaneously decided to show their appreciation of the fine playing by putting their hands together. Mama mia! Admittedly, the number of clappers was much smaller this time, but they were still numerous enough to disturb the sensitivity of the patrons behind me.

"SSSHHHH!" came a hissing rebuke that combined the reprimanding tone of a primary school teacher and the menacing edge of a prison guard. Ah, a true music aesthete.

I was tempted to turn in my seat to see who was doing the shushing, but through 27 years of marriage my wife has valiantly tried to train me to behave myself in public.  It's been a thankless job. So, I didn't budge.

The band--um, trio--played on, finishing up the Beethoven. After a short break, they proceeded with Greenstein's rhapsodic piece, composed as an homage to a deceased loved one. It was very moving. 

Fortunately the composition was contained in a single movement, so there were no opportunities for any unnecessary interruptions by certain patrons unable to hold back their appreciation until the appropriate juncture.

Instead, the second-floor balcony was startled by the sudden loud chiming sound of--you guessed it--an incoming cell phone call.  What the...! The first rule of concert going, as even a rube from Philadelphia knows, is that cell phones must be switched off before the musicians strike the first chord.  

Shock and awe! This was, indeed, an infamy worthy of crucifixion.

As the high-pitched chiming continued, there were definite rustling sounds coming from directly behind me as a woman's hushed voice entreated her companion to disarm the wailing electronic monster. He--and it was a he--did so, but only after a full 30 seconds of earsplitting chiming that completely broke the mood of the very moody Greenstein piece.

No matter. We balcony dwellers struggled to recapture the movement, as the Claremont Trio continued their immaculate playing.  Yes, yes, this truly was a magnificent--

CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEE.......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEE......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMM......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEE......

Impossible!

For a second time, the same cell phone pealed impertinently. 

"Are you crazy?" an American gentleman in the vicinity growled at the cell phone's owner, who turned out to be, of course, the music aesthete himself.

I thought this would surely mean war.  Remember, I'm from Philly and we learn very quickly not to talk to strangers, even if we have moral righteousness on our side, because by saying anything we run a high risk of getting bum-rushed, sucker punched, head butted, or even worse. 

Luckily this is San Miguel, so nothing untoward happened. The errant cell phone finally silenced for good, we all got back to appreciating the music that swirled through the great hall. What a thrilling performance!

And later, I found myself feeling some sympathy for the poor patron sitting behind me. Yes it's true, music aesthetes are easy to disparage, demean, decry, and deride. But the guy's cell phone going off like that, not just once but twice, well, well, well--that could've happened to any idiot.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

BIENVENIDOS, SEŇOR ASSANGE

You've probably heard the news: Julian Assange, the Wikileaks superstar, is looking for a new mailing address.


Mi amigo Julian, let me be the first to invite you to join us other refugees in San Miguel de Allende.

We all know you've been holed up in the Ecuadoran embassy in London for the past two years because of your fear of government prosecution. Feeling a little peaked due to your confinement, you just announced you're looking for a new place to call political asylum.

So far, you haven't indicated any preference. I certainly hope you don't make the same mistake as your fellow global scoundrel, Edward Snowdon, who reportedly has been swallowed by a Russian brown bear.

Listen up, hermano! San Miguel's a much better choice for these reasons:

Bargain Housing. The way the city is being oversold and overdeveloped, housing prices are bound to continue plunging. Just think of it: A four-bedroom house in Balcones or El Paraiso for what you'd pay for a good dinner on Canary Wharf--SOOOOOOOLD! And you can be sure of getting a maid, cook, and gardener at that rock-bottom price.


The Food. Don't know if it's like Ecuadoran food, but it can't be any better.
No cuy (guinea pig), though.

Get in Shape.  Crave a little exercise? San Miguel's running of the bulls is history. But some tony fitness centers have popped up in San Antonio. And there's always the 2-kilometer ascent from La Parroquia to Soriana to get your heart pumping. Just watch out for the broken paving stones, caballero.

Hide in Plain Sight. It's easy to disappear in San Miguel.  Just slap on a Panama hat, a pair of Oakleys, cream-colored linen pants, and a blue chambray shirt and you'll look like every gringo tourist on the Jardin.

Familiar Language. After two years living with the Ecuadorans, you must be pretty fluent in Spanish. No? Anyway, it doesn't really matter. Here, English is as accepted as bad street music.

Great Entertainment.  While we have the worst street musicians in the civilized world, the town boasts some great clubs, museums, galleries, dance venues, music halls, and symphonies. Not to mention the off-license cantinas.


Historical Sites. Ecuador has the Galapagos and Incan ruins. London has Westminster Abbey and the Globe Theater. And San Miguel has the Toy Museum and loose cobblestones as old as Moses.

World-Class Sports.  While the British love to crow about Manchester United and champion cricketeer Alastair Cook, only the Mexicans can claim the Campeche Pirates and Luchador Rey Mysterio as their own.

First-Rate Television.  I bet you've been watching loads of British telly while you're cooped up. Just to reassure you, Megacable provides a wide range of classy telenovelas and comedy shows featuring busty ladies and hairy men wearing lipstick and silly hats. Loads of club-level soccer, too.

Great Professional Opportunities. Internet speeds suck, but computer hackers like you are desperately needed to spearhead a rejuvenated effort to shine a light on any clandestine deal-making or other corruptive practices, if such things actually ever existed.


A Quick Exit. Finally, San Miguel offers easy access to at least four international airports. Call Baijogo for the best shuttle rates. Hey, just in case you wear out your welcome, cabron....



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

WATER WORLD

I bought my first household water filter today.

The ceramic filter (inlaid with colloidal silver) costs 400 pesos ($35) and is retro-fitted into the mouth of a 19-liter (5-gallon) polycarbonate water jug that rests upside-down on a water crock dispenser base, to which a plastic spigot is attached.

We've been using this simple type of water dispensing system--minus the filtration unit--for nearly all our home drinking needs since moving to Mexico. When empty, each jug is replaced with a fresh hygienically-sealed prefilled one.

A fresh jug costs about 27 pesos ($2) at the local Mega Supermercado, plus a one-time deposit fee. Responding to consumer demand, home-delivery services abound, just like in the States. My wife, two dogs, three cats, and I go through about one jug of water a week. Of course, larger families require more jugs.

Like many expatriate households here in Mexico, we're willing to pay a "premium" for branded jugs that are refilled by companies owned by multinational corporations like PepsiCo, Coca-Cola, and Danone. But in working-class neighborhoods, local entrepreneurs meet residents' demands with jugs at a fraction of the price, but filled with water of dubious provenance.

Two dollars a week isn't a lot to spend to avoid a possibly incapacitating gastrointestinal illness or an even worse malady. But since arriving in Mexico ten months ago I have been trying to find a more sustainable, eco-friendly solution for our drinking water needs. Hence, my excitement at discovering the jug-and-ceramic filter combination available from a local nonprofit organization at our town's weekly organic market.

Dylan, a rural development expert who sold me the jug-and-filter contrivance, promised that it would remove all bacterial, viral, and fungal contaminants found in the water coming from our city taps (some of these culprits cause what we gringos call "Montezuma's revenge").

In fact, we're lucky to have only these particular contaminants to contend with. In some outlying campos (rural villages), the ground water also comes laced with heavy metals such as arsenic and fluoride.

These elements occur naturally in the earth's lower stratum where wells have to be drilled nowadays due to depleted aquifers. Even trace amounts rot teeth, bones, and brains, and we're talking about the teeth, bones, and brains of adults and children living in countless rural locations. Polluted rivers are another popular source of drinking water for the country's poor.

Plastic jugs filled with fresh, clean water are unavailable in these isolated locations. And although there may be tanker truck deliveries of what's considered acceptable water, these occur on an erratic schedule.

It's not a great situation. While the Mexican government has been taking baby steps trying to provide safe, potable drinking water to the public, NGOs and numerous nonprofits--largely funded by generous norteamericanos--appear to be making important advances in addressing the crisis.

For example, the Rotary Club of San Miguel de Allende, of which I am a member, has focused on practical, low-cost solutions for rural areas lacking safe drinking water.

Rural Cistern Funded by San Miguel Rotary Club

Recently, the microscopic village of Pena Blanca, located 45 kilometers west of San Miguel, was the scene of a unique festivity. The villagers celebrated the construction of 19 cement rainwater catchment cisterns in their isolated locality.

Fed by rainwater collected from the roofs of local dwellings, these cisterns can provide clean drinking water for each household for as long as a year.

This project is only one of many that our local Club supports--with funding from some U.S. Rotary Clubs, our Club members' guidance and sweat equity, and most notably, of course, through the local villagers' commitment and labor. The regional water company and key Mexico-based grassroots organizations have been big supporters of the project, too.

Such highly cooperative initiatives clearly are moving things in the right direction for campos like Pena Blanca. But it's a big world out there.

According to the World Health Organization (WHO), contaminated drinking water is one of the leading causes of preventable deaths, worldwide. In fact, over 2 million deaths occur each year from water-related diarrhea alone, caused by pathogen contamination in the drinking water.

So, how much thought did I give to the world's drinking water crisis when I was living in the States, before moving to Mexico? I'll let you guess the answer.

Maybe my new home water filter is just a budgetary measure to save my wife and me a few bucks every month. Or maybe, just like the innovative projects spearheaded by expatriates and supported by local agencies to help out the Mexican people, it reflects a new way of thinking about the world.

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

STONE AGE

In America, large-scale construction is done by heavy equipment. Here, people do the work by hand. What Mexico lacks in big machinery, it easily makes up with willing hands.

The latest census figures estimate the country's population at about124 million. Although the official employment rate is less than 5 percent, it's no secret that most workers earn inadequate wages--a dollar a day or less. Some days a lot less; some days nothing at all. Still, through a kind of magical thinking by government statisticians, they're not classified as unemployed.

Thus, there are lots and lots of people these days--particularly young men--who are more than happy to tackle heavy-duty work here at home. They're the ones who used to sneak up north before the great recession hit and those particular types of U.S. jobs evaporated.

Visit any construction site here in Mexico. For an observant American of a certain age, it's a trip down memory lane.You see picks and shovels. Hand trowels and sledge hammers. Handsaws and prybars. Axes and hammers. Chisels and screwdrivers and wrenches.  You see ropes and pulleys. You see hoes and rakes and straw brooms.You see little men lugging ungainly construction materials from one place to another, a little like circus performers.

There's scant evidence of mechanized equipment, bulldozers, excavators, power shovels, backhoes, tractors, tower cranes, jack hammers, cement mixers, diesel-powered road rollers, pneumatic nail guns, gas-powered blowers, etc.

Nearly everything is done by hand--many hands, ceaselessly working. The scene resembles a manic anthill. Just yesterday, I spotted a dozen workers dismantling and lowering a gargantuan promotional billboard, using some ropes, a 6x6 wooden beam, and pure physical effort. It's a miracle nobody got creamed.

The labor may be backbreaking and the pay not great, but at least workers get to take some pesos home to the family. Stacks of tortillas and bags of beans are needed for households of six or more; maybe a little chicken or pork, as well.

Most Americans think food is cheap in Mexico, so nobody's getting hurt by workers' low pay. Food isn’t cheap. Tortillas and beans are partially subsidized by the government, but who can live on that regimen for long? Yet, many impoverished Mexicans do.

In San Miguel, the stonemasons work long hours. They're building new bus stops throughout the city. Laborers heft huge rocks down from the flatbed, chip at them for hours with hammer and chisel, set them in place, construct the support molds of wood, mix the mortar and concrete by hand, and slather stone upon stone, until foundation and wall are complete.

For the rebar to support poured concrete beams, laborers painstakingly twist bands of steel with hand pliers--one support at a time. Hundreds are needed, thousands even. It's magic to see. And I haven't spotted an industrial cement mixer yet.

Some people think Mexicans are bad workers; lazy and unreliable and dishonest. It's not true. Mexicans are some of the hardest workers anywhere. They toil long hours and you don't hear any bitching on the job.  Nobody talks about human dignity or workers’ rights.  They're all too busy making a living, the old-fashioned way.

© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

SOUND AND FURY

Making friends in San Miguel is easy.  But losing them is even easier.  All you need do is bring up the topic of fireworks.

Religion and politics are widely considered devisive issues. But endeavor to suggest that the frequent fireworks displays in our lovely colonial town are not only annoying but also dangerous and should be better controlled by the authorities, and you’re in for a fight. You might even be told to pack your bags and go back home.

That's exactly what a number of San Miguel residents proposed during a recent debate over the mostly unregulated discharge of fireworks here.   

In an article in Atencion, a local weekly bilingual tabloid costing 15 pesos ($1.15), these residents in effect argued that fireworks are as Mexican as tamales, and if you don't like 'em (lots of 'em), well then you'd better seriously consider moving north. Far north. 

Now, I know for a fact that Americans like a good fireworks display.  Who doesn’t enjoy a spectacular sound-and-light show on the Fourth of July? And what could be a more fitting conclusion to the big game than an impressive pyrotechnic demonstration? Oooo-aaaahhh. American as the "1812 Overture," right?

But to many natives, fireworks are more than a celebratory accompaniment—they’re a national rampage. And sometimes one gets the idea that they also may serve as an indirect expression of counter-gringo sentiment.

I'm not suggesting anything sinister here. Mexicans are welcoming hosts to us expats. But one other thing's for sure: Fireworks may just become a potential flashpoint in our mutually respectful relationship.

As an example, during one particular weekend in May one of the smaller chapels in town celebrated its patron saint's feast day. (Doesn't really matter which saint, there are more than enough to go around.) The aerial bombardment started on Friday evening and continued, virtually without pause, through Sunday evening. Windows were rocked and dogs took up permanent residence under beds. No one in our area slept for longer than two hours because of the continual blastings.

Certainly this was an extreme case.  However, nearly every holy day, funeral service, wedding, graduation ceremony, or coming-of-age observance in town ends with the detonation of fireworks--sometimes until two in the morning. The month of September promises unprecedented carpet bombing because of a perfect storm of Mexican Independence celebrations and numerous holy feast days in the Catholic Church.

This is fun for no one, except perhaps for the bombers themselves (impossible to identify), and makes many Americans and Canadians and even some Mexicans mighty cranky at Sunday morning service.

The issue is control. The vast majority of these fireworks displays are criminal. Meaning, they are against the law. They are renegade operations. Many of the fireworks are homemade and therefore extra-dangerous.The people who set them off are nonprofessionals, and too often suffer the consequences of their passion by the lose of fingers and eyes. It happens every year, but no one raises the issue of public safety. And the laws go unenforced for reasons that you can probably guess.

There is nothing pretty about our local fireworks, because they are all BOOM with none of the colorful pinwheel displays high in the nightsky that we find so awe inspiring in the U.S.

Please don't talk to me about Mexican tradition. Perhaps at one time fireworks were a quaint--what my wife drearily calls "folklorical"--expression of respectful glorification or exuberant celebration.

But those days are long gone, as every neighborhood in town vies to achieve the biggest--and longest-lasting--ear-splitting, earth-cracking bangs. And the rest of us have to hide our heads under pillows, or else leave town for the weekend.  Maybe the barrio kids love it. But from my perspective it's time for the grown-ups to take charge.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta 
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

BUMP IN THE ROAD

Up north, drivers encounter speed bumps on rare occasions.  In Mexico, we confront them just about every minute we're on the roads.  The locals call them "topes" (TO-PEZ) and some of these bumps feel more like concrete barriers than reasonable speed-limiting structures. All too often, Mexican topes are car chassis-grinding, suspension-cracking, tire-deflating, tailpipe-breaking, muffler-crunching monsters that take no prisoners.

Many Mexican speed bumps are tall enough to cast a shadow in the afternoon sun. Some are spacious enough to shelter a family of four.

Now, there's one reason for speed bumps in the U.S. and Canada--they're to encourage us to slow down around schools or crowded pedestrian areas.

But in Mexico, safety concerns seem beside the point. For many towns, topes are clearly present to boost the local economy by slowing vehicles to a near standstill. This affords an army of vendors better opportunities to sell their local foods, drinks, and trinkets. Topes are highly popular with beggars, too. Also, they're a proven means for stimulating business for local muffler, tire, and body shops, which coincidentally abound in heavy topes zones.

Some topes are plainly signposted, but most aren't. The only way to tell there's a tope is when you notice you're rapidly approaching a line of vehicles stopped dead in the middle of the road for no reasonable cause; or, it feels like your car just ran over something like a telephone pole. Or maybe four.


Of all the places that I've passed through between the U.S. border and Mexico City, a small market town about 25 kilometers southeast of San Miguel gets my vote for "Topes Capital of the World."

The locals of Los Rodriguez seem friendly enough. Numerous open-air market stalls line the sides of the road. Lively music plays day and night. Happy families gather for heart-warming rituals.  Prices are extremely reasonable for everything from fresh tamales and special drinks to fruits and vegetables and handmade wooden furniture and metalwork.

However, the topes of Los Rodriguez resemble concrete mountains. They appear to have been built by local laborers with the greatest civic pride. You cannot pass through the place, even in a Hummer, without experiencing a severe chassis-grinding, no matter how slowly you drive. Of course, muffler repair businesses abound, as do tire and body shops.

And the question I ask myself whenever I pass through Los Rodriguez is this: Are these speed bumps present for safety concerns or commercial ones?

I think you know my answer.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta 
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com

A CLEAN, WELL-LIGHTED PLACE (Part II)

The official name is"Biblioteca Publica de San Miguel de Allende A.C.," and it is located in the center of town on bustling Insurgentes Street.  For many of us, it's the epicenter of expat life here. And you don't need to be a bookworm to fall in love with the place.

The building has had many guises over the centuries. Once a sanctuary for homeless women, it later served as a slaughterhouse and then a private home for one very wealthy lady. After the owner kindly donated her residence to the town, it assumed its current use as a lending library. It's gone through numerous renovations and upgrades, but a homey feeling still prevails.

Today, the Biblioteca has holdings of more than 60,000 volumes in Spanish, English, German, or French. It hosts lectures, films, and theater events, a scholarship program for young students, and numerous cultural activities. There's a computer room for kids, which is packed after the schools let out for the day.

One lady I knew took a pinata-making course upstairs, and you'll find yoga and music classes, too. Just off the central courtyard and up a ramp, there's a pleasant restaurant, named after a certain Mexican general, that is popular with foreign visitors. I don't mean the general.

Cafe Santa Ana

Of course, I didn't know any of that when I first stumbled into the open hacienda-style courtyard one especially miserable December morning last year.

A bubbling fountain with Christmas decorations stood in the center of this comfortable space, with passageways with high arches on all four side.  Metal tables and chairs were scattered about, occupied by Mexicans and a few gringos. Tentatively, I passed through the archway directly in front of me, went up another long ramp, and entered the pellucid air of the collections rooms.

I discovered an amazingly large selection of books in English (many donated by American and Canadian residents who no doubt have since passed into the great beyond): everything from philosophy to cat care, from biographies to detective fiction, from travel books to self-conscious studies of French cinema of the '60's. It's all on a grand-old scale.

There are numerous and varied reading rooms, some intimate. One sala is dedicated exclusively to South American writers, in Spanish and in translation. This place became my favorite hangout, but only when there aren't music lessons in progress there. The maestro at the piano and his pocket-sized pupils deserve a wide berth.

My entire life I've loved libraries (and bookstores, of course). Then the Amazon revolution in mail-order books and then ebooks transpired and these places lost their relevance to my life.  But all that changed after I discovered the Biblioteca. Here in the silence among the  heavy, slightly worn wooden tables and chairs and baroque stacks of hardbound books, I found a sanctuary. It's a great place to get away from it all and find yourself at the same time.

The Biblioteca also is a perfect setting for making friends among expats, visiting or permanent. Some have rather unique perpectives.  One particular lady has won my admiration. She gets around with the use of a metal walker that looks like it has seen more miles than a '63 Chevy. Lashed to the front of this contraption is a hand-lettered sign that reads: "I DON'T NEED ANY HELP; SO DON'T ASK ME!" She represents the spirit of scrappy independence I often find in people who choose to settle in these parts.

The Biblioteca celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. I know I'm not alone in wishing it many more.




© 2014 Tony DeCrosta 
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com