Fortress of Solitude

Of course I'm no super hero as the title of this post might suggest. I am an American. Like my other 350-some-odd-million compatriots, I live in a oddly uncivilized, modern society, increasingly heroic to thrive in. How the wealthy tempt us with knowledge and flashy gizmos only for us later to discover these are actually devices of pure torture, used to shackle the proletariat to their jobs 24/7!

When I began coming to Mexico a dozen or so years ago, it was like that scene from the movie 9 to 5 when Violet fantasizes about freeing the workers from their dungeon chains. Clouds part, light beams through the windows, the shackles open and the workers slowly rise while looking heavenward.

In the early 2000s (was that not such a lost decade like the '90s were?), my boyfriend at the time introduced me to this marvelous place on the Mexican Riviera. His folks had been frequenting here since 1999, if memory serves. During my first visit we were without mobile/cell service, internet, newspaper (at least none I could read in English), no TV, not even a radio or cans connected with a piece of string. Nada. Eureka. Paradise found.

Actually, I think they did have an English version newspaper. Here's the thing. The newspaper was peddled by the "Crazy Chicken Man." This is going to sound horrible, and believe me I am really a compassionate human being. He's a wheelchair-bound local man who has a crazed look in his eye and an equally crazed smile on his face all the time. His expression seriously never changes. I'm probably going to feel even worse about myself to one day find out his face is somehow stuck that way. He carts around dead chickens and sells newspapers. I know, I know, one cannot judge a book by its cover. If the cover appears to have slaughtered livestock and is happy all the time, I'm either hearing folklore about '80s rock legends or I'm quite possibly in the presence of something sinister.

When I first began coming to Mexico, I imagine it may have been much like 1950's America. There is a sense of community here. People pass by one another on the street. They actually acknowledge one another's existence. Not only do they make eye contact, they say things to each other. "Buenos dias." "Buenos tardes." "Buenos noches." This comes in quite handy when you're twenty something, love to tie one on and sleep for hours upon hours. At the very least people let you know what time of day it is. Like it's a cultural habit formed after generations of people who enjoy leisure so much they chronically lose track of time. I just think this basic courtesy is incredible, miraculous even.

Long story short, in 2006 my then boyfriend and I bought a small house in this seaside village. Did you know it takes on average six months to close a real estate transaction in Mexico? Apparently they've only had a legitimate title system established since the 1990s (found decade for Mexico). So it takes them a little while to track down or perhaps just create official record out of thin air. Or maybe this has all been made up. Maybe there is no house and this is just some wild figment of my imagination and I'm actually in some half-state of meditation. I digress ...

We had fallen in love with this seaside village so much so that we begged, borrowed and in some case stole to make a go of it. I don't mean stealing in the conventional sense. I mean stealing in the noble, capitalistic sense. We borrowed cheap money from the bank. AND I WORKED MY FUCKING ASS OFF PR-ING THINGS FOR THE GAYS, WRITING AND SELLING HOMES IN THE STATES!

We closed in midsummer. A couple weeks later we broke up. Nearly nine years later we still own the house together. Just like our relationship I shoulder the brunt of responsibility and he enjoys the fruits of my labor. Only in this case, with this special place, it really is worth it. This is the one place I can truly unplug and just be.

For one thing, I can neither make nor receive calls thanks to Sprint's crappy mobile service. Thank you. No, really, I mean it. Because of the nature of my work, and because we tend to host many Americans (via vacation rental), I choked and got high speed DSL. High speed is relative. Remember dial up internet with all the buzzing, beeping and digital flatulation noises? Well, it's much quieter and faster than that. It's difficult to stream audio, video or even upload email. So one works less, which is smiled upon in more ingenious parts of the world. Take France for instance.

Everything here is different. The energy is different. There's something about being here that allows one to be absolutely content with few if any desires other than basic needs (shelter, food, water, love, etc.). Some may see this as boring or uncivilized. Contraire mon frere. I really don't know what it is. I just feel so fulfilled just being in this beautiful and lush tropical oasis.

The first time I visited here, people learned my name. They didn't just learn it. Upon returning about a year later, they remembered me, my name. I was greeted, and still am, with fond recognition. It's endearing. It's kind. It's communal. It's also completely reciprocal.

The warmth of being here is not just being situated in the humid heart of the Tropic of Cancer. It's a way of being. Friendly. My hometown in America's Pacific Northwest being the antithesis. There's a phrase I hear from time to time called "Seattle nice," or more appropriately "Seattle ice." It's not that my fellow Seattleites are unfriendly or rude. They're just very, uh, "insular." People just keep to themselves and their respective groups. It's said to be due to a Scandinavian cultural influence. That may be true. I went to Iceland once. If Seattleites are icey, Icelanders are frozen solid. That is until about 6:00 a.m. when the bars begin emptying out onto the streets. Then suddenly perfect strangers act like lifelong friends and want to buy you a hotdog.

I love this. You know, this right now. Sitting here at my kitchen table in Mexico. I'm wearing a pair of orange swim trunks and black Teva flip flops. Hurricane Vance is getting chummy with the coastline, so it has been raining this afternoon. Since I first began coming to this area of the world, I have dreamed of a lovely, tropical rain storm. Thought we might have one yesterday. What a tease. Then this afternoon the skies opened to a symphony of warm rain drops. The windows are wide open to let the fresh sea breeze waft through the house. More so for the reason I love listening to the rain, especially here. Maybe that's also the Seattleite in me. I've dreamed of sitting in my Mexican home, soft lights aglow, tropical rain falling, writing away. Here I am, living the dream. Well not just any dream, it's mine all mine. Oh, and half my ex's. Shit.

My husband and our guests have all retired for a post lunch siesta. So it's just me alone to my thoughts, the sound of rain drops falling on thatch, tile, dirt and palms with the occasional car sloshing by. Started to think to myself "I wish I could share this with the world." Then I caught myself realizing I already am. Silly me.

I named my home Casita Brisa del Mar. Probably got the grammar wrong. I only really officially began taking Spanish last year. Anyway, the dwelling name is supposed to mean Little House of the Ocean Breeze. Cute, huh?

Went to college in San Luis Obispo, California. Gorgeous place, absolutely lovely. I highly recommend a visit or a lifetime of joy there. My second year I shared a house with four others. It was a really fun year, crazy even. One of the best times of my life. We lived on Vista del Brisa or view of the breeze. I used to say it real faggy-like with lotsss of emphasssisss on the sss pronunciationsss. I also thought that particular meaning odd at first. I mean wind is invisible. Then again, you can watch its energy move objects. So, yes, one can watch the wind blow. OMG, of course you can. This is what happens when one allows one's mind to openly wander upon the web.

I don't even know if I've ever really realized exactly why I chose the word brisa to include in the name of my casita until this moment. Like literally right now as I'm writing this. It's a happy place for me. Many good memories have been made here, several I have yet to live down.

Winter/Christmas holiday of 2007 my BFF and I spent 10 days here. Within our first few days we met a couple of Canadian surfers. We'll call them Hibbs and T-Balls. Super cool guys who surfed during the day, ate dinner and partied with us at night. BFF and I thought we would try making dinner for us all Christmas night .

My tiny kitchen, with its little counter space/tiny quarters, tiny fridge and tiny range was even more poorly outfitted with cookware items than it is now. Even now I would be very hesitant to cook anything more than breakfast eggs, rice and beans, etc. OK, maybe a slight embellishment.

Still, BFF and I didn't even know where to really find main course meat. My sweet ex-pat next door neighbors saw us as they were heading into the big town's Costco and wanted to know if we needed anything. I think it's just something innate in me. I loathe the feeling of putting others out, want to always avoid being a burden. So I graciously declined and thanked them for their kind offer. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

BFF and I wandered through town until we saw a very cute sign that read "Carniceria." There were even happy little cartoon characters of animals, even a little egg, all were smiling. It looked innocent enough, like a really happy place. We could not have been more wrong.

We brazenly walk inside. We are both simultaneously struck by the interior juxtaposition. It was a large, open space with dingy, unpainted walls, dusty shelves, utility implements leaning on walls and a couple of refrigerated display cases which may or may not have actually been refrigerated. We turned to one another with a similar "let's get the fuck out of here" look on our faces when suddenly we were greeted by no less than the Crazy Chicken Man! BFF pressed some bills into my hand and literally disappeared. Like she was just gone, out of sight, in a flash.

I'm standing in this very poor excuse of a butcher shop now in the company of the loco local I feared most. I was petrified. At the same time I thought it would be rude to dash off like BFF did. He said something to me in Spanish, I pointed to the case, he wheeled over. As I drew closer, I saw cuts of ordinary meat I'd not seen before. They had no whole chickens, which is all we really wanted. They had a half of chicken with the legs and such. So I pointed to it. He smiled and nodded. The next thing I know he grabbs this raw, half chicken with his bare hand and puts it up onto a stainless steel scale with no liner and then puts it in a plastic mini-mart style shopping sack. I think I'm going to be sick. I hand him a bunch of bills, likely four times the actual cost of the salmonella I walked, er, darted off with, and fled.

Out on the street BFF was anxiously awaiting my return, concerned she may not see me alive again. Sorry to disappoint her. At the same time I was having very unkind thoughts toward her, leaving me there with my nemesis Crazy Chicken Man (even if the nemesis part was just a figment of my sometimes overactive imagination).

ME: What the fuck! Why did you leave me alone in there!?!
BFF: I thought you were also going to bolt.
ME: We couldn't have both run out of there, not after we were greeted. You saw him coming, didn't you, and you didn't say anything?!
BFF: I'm sorry, I just couldn't stay in there.

I could hardly blame here. It was pretty traumatizing ...

ME: You have to carry the bag home then.
BFF: Fine.

I remember physically shivering with disgust at what had transpired. I know, I'm probably sounding like a Prima Donna.

When we arrive home, we debated whether to even use what we both imagined was a disease-carrying-carcass. We had already promised dinner. We had no phone from which to call and change plans. Even if we did the guys were out riding waves somewhere up the coast. We didn't have a car. It just wouldn't be Christmas without some form of dinner. So we did what we do best, improvised.

I get out this big, ceramic pot with lid to cook the carcass in. Probably not the brightest idea, it was all we had. BFF got out the tequila. She poured it over the carcass and some into the pot. Here I thought she was prepping us to "deal" with the situation. BFF then enthusiastically named it "Tequila Sunrise Chicken." I could imagine Amy Sedaris wanting to include this recipe in her sequel cookbook "I like you, too." I suppose bathing the beast in booze was just as well, especially if we were considering actually ingesting this, this mystery meat. Not too much of a mystery, the ass end of it still had some rather thick "hairs" poking out of it, suggesting tail feathers. We pulled at them. They didn't give way easily. Did we need a razor? I mean this whole line of thought still repulses me, honestly.
 
It's getting to be late in the day. There's cooking to be done, house to be prepped/tidied. I cannot find a match or lighter for my gas range anywhere in the house. I was a bit befuddled by what BFF was doing, which appeared to be not much of anything. She senses my frustration, or rather I was back-handing her with it. She asks if everything is OK. Instead of using my big boy words to properly enlist support, I just continue to whirl around in obvious frustration and say in the most declarative manner,"I'm making a plan and I'm taking action! Do you think you could run down to the store and bring us back a lighter?" Admittedly I was being rather douchey, although I still maintain it wasn't completely unwarranted. This being one of several instances I have yet to live down. The "I'm making a plan" bit has become quite the mocking catch phrase between BFF and my husband.

BFF and I also created another saying from this experience. "?Como se dice jenk en Espanol? Carniceria." Jenk or jenky is Bay Area slang for nasty. How do you say nasty in Spanish? Butcher shop.

What happened with our Christmas dinner a la Mexicana? It turned out in the end. No one died. No one got sick, at least not from eating. We had a grand time. Actually, BFF insists the Canadians really loved my dressing. They did go back for second and third helpings.

The rain has let up. Just hearing a few randomly scattered drips. Thankfully none inside. We leave tomorrow and have guests arriving the day following.

This has been a good trip. For me somewhat triumphant in fact. I've not been to my casita for nearly two years. Not since the time I initially fell very, and since chronically, ill. My food sensitivity/reaction symptoms began to flare a few weeks prior to this trip. I wasn't sure I was still up for going. There have been a few unsettling moments during this visit. There have been so many more joyful and peaceful moments. I think this trip has done me good. This little house is still an idyllic place for me to unplug, decompress and let my worries wash away. It is still very much my fortress of solitude.