It's mid day and very hot, probably in the high 80s. We're at an altitude of about 6,000 ft and surrounded by hills. There's an old dog barking behind a grill, a black magpie screeching to its mate but no-one around on our street.
Let me take you for a walk.
Leaving Larry's we're taking a right down Calle Jakaranda. The huge tree is in full purple blossom, petals strewn over the cars and cobble stones beneath. We pass houses built in a grand colonial style, painted in shades of turquoise, terracota, cobalt, lime,ochre, yellow and tangerine. There's a few vacant spaces of wasteland. In the background there are some shacks covered in plastic and bits of tarpaulin with a few jeeps parked alongside. 'Don't know if anyone lives there but we heard fireworks and music coming from that direction all week. Sounds like they know how to party.
We move on watching our steps in case we fall and in a few moments reach the highway. We take a left and pass a number of small garages doing repairs on the side walk, a kiosk selling newspapers and a restaurant that's supposed to serve good fish. The coffees are half the price of in town-10pesos, about 60p, but we're not stopping.
On our left is 'Mega' a large supermarket, where we're buying most of our provisions while we find more local stores. On the roundabout is a statue in the Soviet-realist style of a local hero carrying a massive stone slab on his back, which he used to protect himself while blasting a Spanish stronghold and winning ground in the War of Independence in the early 19th century. It looks like a metaphor for colonialism.
We'll cross the highway here. There are no traffic lights in San Miguel and pedestrians seem to have right of way, but we'd better run, or in my case limp quickly, just in case. Good! We made it!
Now, in front of us is the Mexican equivalent of a MacDonald's- 'Pollos Felix'-that sells chicken al carbon. We'll take a short cut round the back of the car park. God, what's that smell? Look, at the publicity-Mr Chicken eating a banquet of his own children. Isn't that what leads to the equivalent of BSE back home? I feel sorry for the staff. They must be sweltering in those furry Easter chick outfits. No, we won't eat here.
Anyway, let's take a right and we're on the main road into San Miguel de Allende. It's lined with bottle brush trees in red flower and crimson bouganvillea. What about taking a bus from here or we can carry on walking? It will take me about 40minutes as I'm slow these days, but it's only about 15minutes by bus and they're clean, frequent and cheap. The fare is 5 pesos (about 30p).
You'd rather stop for breakfast? No problem. There's a little bar just a few metres along, up past the travelling circus. I know, don't look! the lions, leopards and tigers are in tiny cages and are paraded around town to drum up business. O.K. Maybe we won't stop here after all. Let's head on to the Institute. There's a great exhibition of contemporary Mexican art I'd like to show you. We can stop by the El Tecolote Bookshop. The staff are really friendly, there's a book on Frida Carlo I'd like to buy and we'll grab a drink in the cafe next door. Larry's recommended it.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Monday, 5 April 2010
THE SECRET MILLIONNAIRE IN ABERFAN
Tonight, courtesy of Sky we've been watching a Scottish millionnaire bring succour to the needy of Merthyr Tydfil and those doing good work in Aberfan. I know, I should be learning Spanish.
It got me wondering if Larry could be a secret millionnaire who will reveal himself later on in our programme to the needy of Taffs Well. But, we're neither doing any good work or are particularly needy. From reading the bi-lingual weekly newspaper it would seem that giving to the poor and needy is something that people in San Miguel de Allende do a lot of. There is a population of around 100,000 and 10,000 are foreigners mainly Americans. The cultural institutes have a wide programme of events that are fundraisers and award grants to talented but poorer students so they can pursue their gifts in music, dance and the arts. I don't know yet if these are run by Mexicans or ex-pats wanting to put something back into the community. Or both perhaps?
We've visited three of these institutes. They are large airy colonial buildings, walls painted with figurative & abstract murals and galleries of contemporary Mexican art and crafts; with workshops,a theatre and outdoor class rooms, where students may be painting watercolour, sculpting stone or, learning Spanish.
Then, there are the bone idle tourists like us enjoying a beer and people watching in the luxuriant courtyard gardens.
It got me wondering if Larry could be a secret millionnaire who will reveal himself later on in our programme to the needy of Taffs Well. But, we're neither doing any good work or are particularly needy. From reading the bi-lingual weekly newspaper it would seem that giving to the poor and needy is something that people in San Miguel de Allende do a lot of. There is a population of around 100,000 and 10,000 are foreigners mainly Americans. The cultural institutes have a wide programme of events that are fundraisers and award grants to talented but poorer students so they can pursue their gifts in music, dance and the arts. I don't know yet if these are run by Mexicans or ex-pats wanting to put something back into the community. Or both perhaps?
We've visited three of these institutes. They are large airy colonial buildings, walls painted with figurative & abstract murals and galleries of contemporary Mexican art and crafts; with workshops,a theatre and outdoor class rooms, where students may be painting watercolour, sculpting stone or, learning Spanish.
Then, there are the bone idle tourists like us enjoying a beer and people watching in the luxuriant courtyard gardens.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
EXTERMINATE ALL CHOPPER ANTS & GRASSHOPPERS!
This is our Sunday instruction. Seems a bit harsh on Easter Sunday particularly as the Head Gardener is a bit of a pacifist, but he's outside on their trail now.
'They can eat a tree in a day, so be on the look out and if you see just one, remember...' Larry told us.
Yes, kill! kill! kill!. It's what you might expect from the Chief Security Officer. It's my responsibility to make sure the alarm system is on, off, armed, disarmed, lights on the terrace are on at sunset, fountains are on, off, curtains closed in the afternoon so as not to damage the furniture. There's also an automatic system, which I mustn't tamper with. It's very tempting though, as I realise what an anxious person I've become as I've got older. I worry if the Head Gardener will lose the keys to the palace, if some burglar will slip into the garage while he's outside on the trail of the offending insects, if Larry's secretly filming us and that we're really on a reality TV programme that weirdos have paid to watch. Now, get a grip!
San Miguel de Allende, named by a Friar and later after a hero of the war of independence, is a beautiful, arty town, full of colour and history. It was declared a UNESCO City of Culture in 2008 and there's an army of small people with Indian faces in blue overalls brushing and cleaning the gutters and plazas so that they sparkle. It's also nicknamed, 'the city of fallen women', not because there's a higher proportion of working girls but because so many of us manage to turn an ankle or slip on a hand -carved cobble that line the roads. I've taken to using my Nordic walking stick. I stood leaning on it,while watching a Good Friday procession of Christ on the cross followed by a posse of Roman soldiers and little girls dressed as brides of Christ. It didn't get me a seat though. Maybe people thought I was on a skiing trip. That is until Rhys asked me how my hip was and a kind Mexican woman who understood English squeezed up and let me sit down.
Today, we're off to town again to see the Easter celebrations-the dynamiting of larger than life-size papier-mache Judas dolls. Kill! kill! kill!
Happy Easter!
'They can eat a tree in a day, so be on the look out and if you see just one, remember...' Larry told us.
Yes, kill! kill! kill!. It's what you might expect from the Chief Security Officer. It's my responsibility to make sure the alarm system is on, off, armed, disarmed, lights on the terrace are on at sunset, fountains are on, off, curtains closed in the afternoon so as not to damage the furniture. There's also an automatic system, which I mustn't tamper with. It's very tempting though, as I realise what an anxious person I've become as I've got older. I worry if the Head Gardener will lose the keys to the palace, if some burglar will slip into the garage while he's outside on the trail of the offending insects, if Larry's secretly filming us and that we're really on a reality TV programme that weirdos have paid to watch. Now, get a grip!
San Miguel de Allende, named by a Friar and later after a hero of the war of independence, is a beautiful, arty town, full of colour and history. It was declared a UNESCO City of Culture in 2008 and there's an army of small people with Indian faces in blue overalls brushing and cleaning the gutters and plazas so that they sparkle. It's also nicknamed, 'the city of fallen women', not because there's a higher proportion of working girls but because so many of us manage to turn an ankle or slip on a hand -carved cobble that line the roads. I've taken to using my Nordic walking stick. I stood leaning on it,while watching a Good Friday procession of Christ on the cross followed by a posse of Roman soldiers and little girls dressed as brides of Christ. It didn't get me a seat though. Maybe people thought I was on a skiing trip. That is until Rhys asked me how my hip was and a kind Mexican woman who understood English squeezed up and let me sit down.
Today, we're off to town again to see the Easter celebrations-the dynamiting of larger than life-size papier-mache Judas dolls. Kill! kill! kill!
Happy Easter!
Thursday, 1 April 2010
HOUSE-SITTING COUPLE HELD FOR RANSOM BY MEXICAN DRUG CARTEL
April Fool!
Twenty eight hours from Taffs Well, two planes, three buses, a taxi and a car ride later and we arrived to a full moon shining over Larry's palace in San Miguel de Allende. We were a bit phased at Mexico City Airport when in getting on the bus to Queratero we were frisked for weapons and then videoed by a policeman with a camcorder. Nobody else seemed phased.
Today is our first day home alone. Larry's trip to Equador got cancelled and he's gone house-sitting for a friend up the road. So we're in a chain of house-sitters. Steffan is house-sitting for us, us for Larry, Larry for a friend, Larry's friend for another friend and so on. Maybe one of us gets to own a house at the end. Who knows? He said he'll be back on Wednesdays to check how we're doing. Our duties are going to be quite taxing. We have to water the plants twice a week.
It's Holy Week and the local people like to celebrate with fireworks and drums. On the first night I awoke hearing a raptor thumping it's tail as it ascended the spiral staircase. I awoke in a bed like an upside down table looking up at a brick curved ceiling like being in a bread oven tightly packed with terracota loaves.
I don't know what Larry put in that nightcap.
Today we walked into town and spent three hours looking for a gambio to change money. All the banks are closed for the holiday. We had the Mexican equivalent of about six pounds to last us four days. We never found one, but eventually found a hotel that was prepared to change our dollars.
Lesson. Next time we come to Mexico bring a debit card for the ATM.
No, we still haven't worked out why Larry would need anybody to come 8,000 miles to water his plants twice a week. In time, perhaps we will.
Twenty eight hours from Taffs Well, two planes, three buses, a taxi and a car ride later and we arrived to a full moon shining over Larry's palace in San Miguel de Allende. We were a bit phased at Mexico City Airport when in getting on the bus to Queratero we were frisked for weapons and then videoed by a policeman with a camcorder. Nobody else seemed phased.
Today is our first day home alone. Larry's trip to Equador got cancelled and he's gone house-sitting for a friend up the road. So we're in a chain of house-sitters. Steffan is house-sitting for us, us for Larry, Larry for a friend, Larry's friend for another friend and so on. Maybe one of us gets to own a house at the end. Who knows? He said he'll be back on Wednesdays to check how we're doing. Our duties are going to be quite taxing. We have to water the plants twice a week.
It's Holy Week and the local people like to celebrate with fireworks and drums. On the first night I awoke hearing a raptor thumping it's tail as it ascended the spiral staircase. I awoke in a bed like an upside down table looking up at a brick curved ceiling like being in a bread oven tightly packed with terracota loaves.
I don't know what Larry put in that nightcap.
Today we walked into town and spent three hours looking for a gambio to change money. All the banks are closed for the holiday. We had the Mexican equivalent of about six pounds to last us four days. We never found one, but eventually found a hotel that was prepared to change our dollars.
Lesson. Next time we come to Mexico bring a debit card for the ATM.
No, we still haven't worked out why Larry would need anybody to come 8,000 miles to water his plants twice a week. In time, perhaps we will.
BLUE WOMAN HELPS IN SEARCH FOR ESTA
'Have you a visa?' 'I'll be in transit.'
'You need an ESTA number or you won't be able to transit in Houston.'
'But, . . .(panic)...but, (rising panic)...the plane leaves in ......'
'You looking for ESTA too?' a New Zealand voice asked us, pushing her overflowing trolley into what the staff at Terminal 4 in Heathrow call, 'an internet cafe'- three computers and a queue of panicked travellers asking each other panicked questions as they competed to complete their applications for the Electronic System for the Transportation of Aliens(or something like that).
I thought she'd said, 'ESKI'-a small fridge that Antipodeans take on picnics. I could have done with a cold beer at that point as I'd forgotten everything I'd ever learnt about using a computer.
Some of my companions had even forgotten where they were heading.
'Is Texas in North or South America'
'What's our flight number?'
Then it became more co-operative:
'Can you change a fiver?'
'Does anyone have a pen?'
and from the Kiwi about my IT skills,
'You're worse than me! Quick, you're running out of time. Put another pound in the slot or you'll lose ESTA.'
It was then I realised I'd seen her before. In Rhys' painting, 'The Blue Woman'-hair of spiked cobalt.
I saw her blue mop again in the immigration queue at Houston where she was interrogated for being an alien in transit. And again, as we re-entered the country, went through customs, were frisked, had ourselves and our hand luggage re-searched and ended up exactly at the same point we started-back on the plane.
'What a bloody waste of time that was,' she said. 'Haven't the Yanks heard of transit lounges?
Not for aliens, obviously.
'You need an ESTA number or you won't be able to transit in Houston.'
'But, . . .(panic)...but, (rising panic)...the plane leaves in ......'
'You looking for ESTA too?' a New Zealand voice asked us, pushing her overflowing trolley into what the staff at Terminal 4 in Heathrow call, 'an internet cafe'- three computers and a queue of panicked travellers asking each other panicked questions as they competed to complete their applications for the Electronic System for the Transportation of Aliens(or something like that).
I thought she'd said, 'ESKI'-a small fridge that Antipodeans take on picnics. I could have done with a cold beer at that point as I'd forgotten everything I'd ever learnt about using a computer.
Some of my companions had even forgotten where they were heading.
'Is Texas in North or South America'
'What's our flight number?'
Then it became more co-operative:
'Can you change a fiver?'
'Does anyone have a pen?'
and from the Kiwi about my IT skills,
'You're worse than me! Quick, you're running out of time. Put another pound in the slot or you'll lose ESTA.'
It was then I realised I'd seen her before. In Rhys' painting, 'The Blue Woman'-hair of spiked cobalt.
I saw her blue mop again in the immigration queue at Houston where she was interrogated for being an alien in transit. And again, as we re-entered the country, went through customs, were frisked, had ourselves and our hand luggage re-searched and ended up exactly at the same point we started-back on the plane.
'What a bloody waste of time that was,' she said. 'Haven't the Yanks heard of transit lounges?
Not for aliens, obviously.
Saturday, 27 March 2010
WAITING FOR GODOT
Last week attended a course, 'Neuroscience and Attachment' led by Dr Glyn Hudson-Allez and organised by The British Association of Sexual & Relationship Therapy. It was held in a pub on Blackfriars Bridge-a contemporary venue for looking at the impact of childhood trauma on adult relationships and a great view of the Thames. Though the tutor did find the repetitive nature of the busking somewhat trying.
In the evening my oldest school friend and I hobbled through Piccadily. She has a foot problem, so she lent on her stick and I lent on her, like old pals with attachment issues might.
At the Haymarket Theatre, Ian McKellan and Roger Rees, played a couple of ex-Vaudeville performers, Gogo and Didi, now tramps, discussing the meaning of life and how to pass time to relieve its boredom until Godot appears. What shone through all this angst was the meaning of their relationship-to them. As I sat by my friend dropping off into narcoleptic fits and waking at exactly the right moment to laugh at Didi and Gogo, 51 years of friendship felt like life imitating art imitating life .
In the evening my oldest school friend and I hobbled through Piccadily. She has a foot problem, so she lent on her stick and I lent on her, like old pals with attachment issues might.
At the Haymarket Theatre, Ian McKellan and Roger Rees, played a couple of ex-Vaudeville performers, Gogo and Didi, now tramps, discussing the meaning of life and how to pass time to relieve its boredom until Godot appears. What shone through all this angst was the meaning of their relationship-to them. As I sat by my friend dropping off into narcoleptic fits and waking at exactly the right moment to laugh at Didi and Gogo, 51 years of friendship felt like life imitating art imitating life .
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