Eye C U

Last February, when my mom finally bought her ticket to come and visit me in Perth I was thrilled. I was excited that not only we would be able to spend some quality time together, but that I would be able to share my new home and life with her. This wasn't her first trip to Australia so we would skip the touristy stuff and I could focus on showing her my day to day activities, as well as all the small things I love about the place I currently call home. In anticipation of her visit I decided I wanted to take her camping, after all, the bush has been such an important part of our life.  There would be no dramas since we have an extra tent and sleeping bag, and I figured we could always rent a RAV4 and she could sleep on the back if need be. As Mom's trip neared the days became shorter and winter began to settle in. A few weeks before her arrival the not only did the temperatures dropped and the rains arrived; I realized that camping with Mom would not be a joyful experience. So, we decided to go with plan B and show her how we experienced the Australian Bush before we dished out 25 buck for our tent--a night in an Ozzie  Caravan Park.
It was just our luck that just up the road in Cervantes was a Caravan Park we had previously visited. The place had been clean, and had all the amenities to provide a true experience. Unfortunately, the place was all booked up. So we moved on to plan C. We decided to stay with the destination because of its proximity to the Pinnacles, but we didn't want to pay to stay at the overpriced hotel in town. We remembered from our previous visit that the town boasted a Backpackers accommodations.
I was in a bit of a quandary and I had to question if I really wanted to put my mom through a hostel experience. I had only stayed at one Backpackers in Australia and it was extremely clean and comfortable, but I couldn't shake the vision of some of  my less that stellar experiences in Europe--like the place I stayed at the first year I moved to Granada. The University had recommended it as an ideal budget accommodation to stay at while we looked for apartments, but perhaps exotic would have been a better description. Sure, the centrally located Hostal was very clean and the family that ran the place were very nice and made you feel like part of the family. However, things became a bit too friendly when, during one of my curtainless showers, I became the star of a peep show. The door which was missing a door knob had a wad of toilet paper stuffed in the round hole, and half-way through my shower a human eye replaced the paper.
I put my past experiences aside and after much deliberation, we decided to give the Cervantes Backpackers a go since it would be for just one night. Besides the room  had its own ensuite, whereas at the Caravan Park we would have had to to make the midnight dash across the park to the Ablution Block.
As it turned out there was no need for the earplugs I had packed, as there were no drunk young'uns running around to all hours of the night keeping us oldies awake. In fact, we pretty much had the immaculate place to ourselves, and our room even had a view of the Indian Ocean and Mom was a happy camper.

Visa By Marriage

It isn't everyday that your partner comes home and announces that he is in the interview process for a job overseas, but it could happen. Seven years ago it happened to me. Within 5 days of walking through the door and making his announcement Mark was offered a job he couldn't refuse--an opportunity to work in his field in sunny Southern Spain. I'll admit that we weren't exactly living in dreary England, and it wasn't the weather that made the job offer appealing. No, it was the fact that my partner had been dreaming of returning to Spain after my year long teacher exchange (an experience I refused to repeat).
Of course I had no problem with the idea of a year or two abroad, especially if I didn't have to work. However, there was a hitch and the visa being offered to Mark was not valid for domestic partners. It didn't matter that we had been together for years, that we were in a committed relationship, or that we owned a house together. In order for me to legally accompany Mark we need the "simple" paper that showed we were husband and wife.  We never really sat down and discussed it, and there was no formal proposal; but as we stood in Kinkos faxing his signed contract we knew what had to happen. We didn't spend hours on end making wedding plans--Mark was too busy preparing to leave the country in under six weeks.
One of the most important days of my life was planned by me and my best friends. The Girls were with me for every step of the way--date, announcement party, venue, guests, reception, and ring selection. They went so far as to make the flower and cake arrangements without my input and I could not have done a better job. Both my bouquet and cake brought tears of joy to my eyes.
We began the planning with a brainstorming session that took us from a drive through wedding in Vegas to a simple ceremony at our home. We decided on keeping the pending marriage a secret until the announcement was made at our annual Christmas Tree decorating party. (You may want to note that our our yearly tree was far from traditional and consisted of a hollowed out cactus adorned with over 500 white lights and a hundred colorful hand crafted mexican tin decorations.) The sparking sight would provide the back drop for our vows.
Our small and simple ceremony occurred on Tuesday after Thanksgiving, exactly 10 years after our first kiss and 4 days before Mark was to leave to Spain. We were joined by our Parents, and my 3 B.F.F.--each playing a key role:  Bride's Maid, Best (wo)Man, and photographer. The event was presided over by one of Mark's ex-colleagues who just happened to be a Minister.  I think he did the service more as an act of friendship than as a belief in our eternal love. Maybe we shouldn't have told him we had to get married for the visa. Also, it didn't help that as Mark slipped the silver band around my finger he declared it a symbol of his freedom (it should have been love). When the ceremony was over, and the Minister walked down the path with our gift of gratitude tucked under his arm (a dozen bottles of Spanish wine), I couldn't help but wonder if he was headed home to get drunk.
With papers signed, pictures taken, and Kalhua--which my paternal Grandmother had bought in Mexico for this vary occasion when I was 6 years old--was drunk we headed to a local restaurant to celebrate a union that was going to embark us on the adventure of a life time. This all occurred 7 years ago today.

A Bumpy Ride

photo from www.delange.org/Xochicalco_o/Xochicalco_o.htm

During our stay in Cuernavaca, Gretchen's and my relationship evolved from grammar and study to touristy/cultural events in and around the city.

A visit to Cuernavaca wouldn't be complete with out a visit to the pre-Colobian archaeological site of Xochicalco, located just 38 km southwest of town.  The architecture of the site may have affinities with Teotihuacan, but the draw for me was the Solar Observatory.

The site was originally a natural cave which was modified to allow the study of the sun's movement between April 30 to August 15. During this time the sun shines into the cave and its movement can be tracked. Twice in its journey across the sky, when the sun is at its zenith (May 14/15 and July 28/29), an intense beam of light is cast onto the observatory floor. 

Unfortunately, we would not be able to visit on the key dates, but still the site was a place I wanted to visit. I had convinced Gretchen that it would be a good day trip, but we were left with the question of how to get there.  Like most places in Mexico, it was accessible by public transportation but this involved some planning.  However, no matter how great the plans, there is always room for unexpected surprises.

Our trip to the archaeological site went off without a hitch.  I am sure some people wouldn't be happy with the final 30 minute walk in the sun, but we couldn't be bothered waiting 40 minutes for a combi (a VW passenger bus) to take us to the gates.  However, at the end of our visit to the site (which was nothing short of spectacular--even without the strong beam), we were thrilled to see the combi sitting at the gate.  That enthusiasm dwindled as we approached a jammed packed van.  The driver took one look at my 6 foot, blonde hair, blue-eyed companion and told those in the back to make room for me, as he so kindly climbed out of the driver's seat to make room for Gretchen between him and the other front seat passenger.  From the look on the faces of my companions in the back I could tell they were far from happy trying to squeeze me in.

As we drove down the bumpy dirt road, the driver tried to chat up Gretchen.  His feeble attempts were wasted, though I am not sure if it was because la Rubia was sick of always getting hit on or due to a lack of comprehension skills.  Whatever the case, her body language showed relief when the passenger next to her yelled "baja" and soon exited the van.  No sooner had the door closed and Gretchen moved closer to the door, when a large figure appeared on the horizon. The driver's scrowl turned to a grin and Gretchen's relief to tension as the near 300 pound figure hailed the combi.  From my position I could not see how it would be physically possible for such a large person to squeeze into an already jam packed vehicle.  Still, the van drew to a stop, the front door was opened, and the traveler invited in.  Not a sound was made as he slid into the seat, partially smashing and covering Gretchen.  Not a sound was made for the next several miles.  The silence in the van was broken when our newest fare requested a stop.  Once he had exited the van there was a collective sigh of relief which was quickly gave way to a van full of giggles.  

Duke(esa)s of Burque

Our Christmas 2009 Road Trip was winding down and we were slowly working our way back to Adelaide.  We knew the coastal route was not an option because of the crowds, so we were trying our luck inland.  We decided to give the Mt. Bangor State Park a try.  We figured that with no water around, we wouldn't have a problem finding a camp spot.  The biggest draw back would be the several miles of dirt road we would have drive.  In fact, according to the map the whole mountain seemed to be traversed by dirt roads--more than average for a State Park.  No worries, that is why we had a 4wd.

We followed the unsealed road that crossed the plains towards the small mountain range.  From a distance the pine forests looked inviting, and with 4 camping areas listed in the park we were feeling optimistic.  Alas, our enthusiasm quickly faded when we pulled into the first campground and were greeted by dozens of off road and all terrain vehicles.  We sighed simultaneously, knowing we would not be calling this park home for the night.  A few days later, I was reminded that there was a time in my life when the scene at Mt. Bangor would have had me pitching the tent and hitching a ride.

It was the early 80's and the idea of a weekend trip to the mountains with my good buddy and her mother was not on my bucket list.  In fact, I was trying to convince Kyna that we should tell her Mom  we were staying at my house and we could really stay unsupervised at her place. Ahhhhh, the life, times and lies of teenagers.  However, when the promise of unlimited use of a hot rod dune buggy became part of the deal, I quickly changed my mind about getting up close and personal with the great outdoors.

I don't remember much of our weekend in the central mountains of New Mexico.  There were no long walks amongst the fragrant pine trees, nor sitting on a peak looking at the valley below.  All I can recall is the dirt that we stirred up as we raced along the dirt road in the open framed vehicle.  You would think that after a couple of hours boredom would have set in, but we kept at it for 2 days straight.  I suppose we felt empowered being behind the wheel, since neither of us had our drivers license yet.  With our hair blowing in the wind, up and down the dirt road we went. And the never-ending screams and yells of "push the pedal to the metal" filled the air.      

Unfortunately, our fun could not last forever, and late Sunday afternoon it came to an end. And it wasn't because it was time to pack up and head home.  Instead, what in our minds was "impossible" occurred.  As Kyna rounded a corner at a high speed, she lost control of the vehicle.  We left the dirt track and headed straight for a pole.   Since the vehicle had been modified to be as lightweight as possible, the impact caused the front of the car to go straight up into the air.  Time moved in slow motion and it seemed as if I sat there forever in a confused state.  It wasn't until I looked over at Kyna and saw blood at on her face that I began to panic.  Then panic turned to full blown fear when she looked at her leg and began to yell "I can see my bone, I can see my bone."

I quickly unfastened my seatbelt, jumped from the buggy and began to run down the road towards where her mother was.  I have no idea if the shrieks from my mouth were due to the pain I felt in my knees or the fear I felt in my heart.  I ran for what felt like the distance of a marathon but it was more like a few blocks.  Ms. Miller met me on the road before I reached the cabin.  I explained what had happened and we headed back up the road.  When we reached the dune buggy we were shocked to find it empty.  I knew we both had on our seat belts and that Kyna had not been thrown out of the vehicle;  yet, she was no longer in the driver's seat.  We were searching everywhere, including  under the car, when we heard a call from a nearby cabin. 

An ancient, little lady stood in the doorway beckoning for us to come.  She had not witnessed the accident--her lack of eyesight would have made that impossible.  However, she had heard the commotion and been the first on the scene.  She had moved Kyna into her house to clean her up and give her some aspirin with what Kyna recalls as the dirtiest cup of water she had ever seen.  With the injuries under control we loaded into the car and headed to the big city.  We made the trip back to Albuquerque in record time.  At the hospital Kyna received several stiches on her leg and above her right eye. I was luckier.  I just had a chipped kneecap and was only subjected to a leg brace.

Over time I had forgotten about this story.  And it was not our short trip through Mt. Bangor that brought it back to mind.  Instead the memory resurfaced when we got home and there was a picture of the dune buggy on my facebook wall.  In our "discussion" about the picture, Kyna hails me as her hero for running for help with a chipped kneecap.  The truth is, the only reason I was able to run was that I wanted to get as far away as possible so I didn't have to look at her bone!

No Digital cameras in those days, but thanks to Kyna for the scanned photo.

An Earth Shaking Memory

On Friday night there was a small earthquake here in Adelaide.  It was the first time that the earth moved here since 1954, and even though the quake only measured 3.5 it was the topic of discussion on Saturday.  I slept through the excitement, but the following stories brought back memories of some time I spent in Mexico City.
In 1995 I found myself floundering and jobless.  I had recently returned from teaching English in Spain, and wasn't sure what to do next.  My Aunt had a connection in Mexico City, who just happened to be looking for someone to teach English at her school.  I decided that I had nothing to loose and jumped at the opportunity.
In exchange for my working at the school, the family would provide me with a place to live and all meals.  This worked well for me since, even though I had lived alone in a foreign country, I was intimidated by the size of Mexico City.
My accommodations included a shared room with the family's daughter.  Annie and I, both in our mid 20's, hit it off well enough.  However, when I saw our room, I couldn't help but feel I had been transported back to my teenage days.  The walls were covered with posters of Pop Star Pretty Boys.  Hmmm, I would have preferred a more sophisticated decor, perhaps more in line with the rest of the house.
My new home was centrally located in Polanco, right across from Chapultapec Park.  For those of you unfamiliar with Mexico Cities neighborhoods, Polanco is on the ritzy side.  Our building may have been dull and grey on the outside, but looks can be deceiving.  I was reminded of that each time I entered the apartment from the elevator (yep, the elevator opened right into the apartment) to be faced with an original 1930's David Siqueiros painting--no posters here!
The flat reflected the rest of the life that I was to live in Mexico: maids, chauffeurs, doormen, nannies, and all of the other people that make it possible for a "household to keep running."
As much as I tried, I had a hard time adapting and assimilating to my new found riches.  I couldn't help but cringe when at dinner I was consistently reminded that Mexico has no poverty.  It was as though the people I was living with had encapsulated themselves in a glass bubble and were unable to see the world around them.  The protective barriers that had been placed around me began to suffocate me.  My only escape from my prison was when I would have the driver "take me to Church." In reality I would slip him a few bills to allow me to wander the streets of the magnificent, though poverty ridden, city.  Each time I returned from one of my secret excursions I would thank the Virgen de Guadalupe, not for delivering me safely, but for allowing me to use her as an escape.
After a probationary two months I had to make a decision.  Would I continue to live in the oppressive confinements of Mexico City, or perhaps I should say of the glass house, or was it time to leave?  I had the weekend to make my decision.  On Saturday night, I decided to stay at home and weigh my options.  Except for the maid, I was alone in the condo.  I sat on the bed listing pros and cons, when Mother Nature abruptly provided some input.  The 10 story building started to sway back and forth.  The plate glass windows began to vibrate and rumble.  A paper mache clown riding a high wheel bicycle on a trapeze strung across the room, swayed spastically from side to side.   I froze in fear as visions of the collapsed buildings of 1985 filled my eyes.  There had been a lot of recent coverage of that tragic event  since the city was currently "celebrating" the 10 year anniversary of the "big one." The visions were fresh in my memory.  I was brought back to the present as the maid ran into my room and dropped to the floor on her knees, screaming and frantically crossing herself.  I'm sure that rather than visions, she was recalling vivid memories.  When the rocking ceased, I picked up the phone and booked a plane ticket home.