LXI. Mi Pintor, José

My Painter, José

Pintar—to paint

Pintura—paint (as in gallons of), painting (work of art or piece of work)

$1900MX or about $115US—Cost of a 5 gallon (19 liter) bucket of high quality Poliprisa brand pintura from a store four blocks away.

Multiple receipts are evidence of at least half
a dozen trips to the paint store where I now
feel pretty much at home.

The bucket weighs a little over 25 kilograms, which is pretty heavy, or pesado, when you have to lug that awkward item back to the work site. Fortunately, that’s one of the jobs I was paying mi pintor, José, to do Tuesday, last week. Meanwhile I was wrestling with the bolsa containing brushes, sealer, roller, pan, sheets of plastic, masking tape and extension pole that I'd just purchased; José didn’t have any of these supplies or tools, nor transportation other than a bus. 

So we walked back to la nueva casa on the cobbled verge along the carretera, or main throughway in our small town, past all the various and mostly bustling tiendas, looking for a break in the traffic since the stoplight was no longer in its usual place at the crossing; it must have been knocked off the beam by an errant truck or some such.

José has been putting in long hours, starting about nine and lasting until I walk over from our apartment in the late afternoon to pay him for the day’s work. It’s slow going; he’s painting over brick and there’s a lot of taping and cutting as well. After working Tuesday through Saturday, he was supposed to finish the bed and bathrooms (including their ceilings) today, but it’s noon now and he hasn’t yet returned from an emergency trip back home. He lives with his wife and two young children in Chapala, about 10 km. away. They had run out of propane last night and this morning I gave him an advance on today’s pay so the family could cook and have hot water.

I was to meet him an hour ago when I brought over his lunch, but with buses, you never know. My culinary spouse has been making José a nice baguette sandwich every day he’s been working; along with paying for his transport it’s part of the deal. We also throw in a couple of Nature Valley Sweet and Salty trail bars, and I pick up a small bag of potato chips (with salsa packet included, of course) plus an orange Fanta at the little corner grocery. José tells me he loves the trail bars, but has been taking the chips home for Ramón and Adelita, his children…

I had planned to leave the post at this endearing point but my working relationship with José has become more complicated. He made it back too late Monday to complete the job. Yesterday, though, he—finally, nearly—got it all done, and it looks good. But all told, the work took almost twice as much time as he originally estimated and I’m paying him by the hour. We had a talk. He pleaded that the painting presented special challenges he hadn’t recognized, he offered to come in under any bid I could get for other work he has tried to interest me in, and vowed to give me an hour of his free labor to clean and touch up.

A problem is that José does not have the tools of any trade to speak of, nor really much experience in any salable line of work; drywalling was what he did in the States, but there’s not much call for that here where nearly all construction is concrete. I had considered having him break up some of the patio to form planting beds, but to make that happen I would have to buy a wheelbarrow, sledge hammer and chisel, shovel for him to mix the concrete, and hire a truck to do the hauling. There are some guys just down the street who are doing a similar job and I don’t doubt would be available for me to hire. 

When he finishes the only painting that remains to be done—a door and cabinet currently being made by a carpenter—I had thought to give José the few things I had bought for the just almost-finished job. Well, I still will, but he broke the relatively expensive extension pole he encouraged me to buy; that act and what I saw as his failure to take responsibility for it, tipped the scales against hiring him for the patio. 

Still…Perhaps I’ll stake him to a newspaper ad, flyers or business cards, stressing his English language skills. When I was starting out gardening on my own I walked miles passing out and posting flyers. That worked for me when I wasn’t much younger than he is now…I’m concerned about José, his kids and wife, feel sort of responsible, especially since they only recently moved here after being kicked out of the States where—say what you will—I feel fortunate to have been born.

LX. El Primer Mes, Parte 2

The First Month, Part 2

The third week after our house purchase began with me developing a painful stye on my left eyelid and an ugly cold sore also began erupting on my upper lip. I looked and felt a mess. I guess the release of several months of tension had left my body susceptible to such outbreaks. At least I managed to continue staving off the respiratory ailments—a hacking flu, bronchitis and even pneumonia—that have brought down a good portion of the village, Mexicanos and gringos alike.

I didn’t feel up to contracting the next crew to do carpentry and painting, but by week’s end we had finished most all of the initial cleaning and moved the lighter furnishings that we want to keep into the garage. Meanwhile we continued to search that Facebook page—unsuccessfully, so far—to find a suitable living room suite, outdoor table and chairs. I had previously made a scale drawing of the main sala and patio and begun positioning little to-scale cut-out drawings of furniture to get an idea how the space would look and what would fit. Mi esposa teases me about this obsessive activity but—I like to think—she acknowledges its value.

The white flakes on the bricks are evidence of
salitre, a residue of salt that has been dissolved
by seepage of water, moved by osmosis, and
 then dried on the surface. If the brick had been
painted, you would see raised bumps on its
surface. The cure is to scrape off the flakes and
crumbling brick and prevent, if possible, future
moisture from coming into the brick. 

Neither of us much care for the pots of thorny cacti and many succulents now spaced around what has begun to look like a pretty bare and unshaded patio; we realize it will not offer much relief from the late spring heat. So we've begun thinking about tearing up some of the flagstones and putting in beds with more lush plantings. With that thought in mind we started keeping an eye out for types of plants we want, as well as continuing our search for just the right combination of color to paint the front of our new casa.

By the beginning of the fourth week—in other words, three weeks after our purchase—I was mostly recovered from my twin ailments; I made an appointment with a highly recommended contractor whom I will call Dominique. 

Monday I showed him what we wanted done—our bed and bath rooms painted a very light shade of sea green over the muddy yellow, a door put in between those two rooms, the saltire (see picture) repaired there and in several other rooms, kitchen counter tiled and a stainless steel double sink installed, plus some kitchen cabinets built and smaller acts of carpentry.

Dominique had arrived more or less on time, had looked over the work, and told me his carpenter would come by the next day to assess that portion of the job. He’d get back to me with an estimate. On Tuesday—martes—I waited an hour for the carpenter; he never came. That evening D. called to see if everything was copacetic and seemed shocked his guy hadn’t shown up. We arranged to all meet the next day. That worked OK—they were just a little late. D. gave me his part of the estimate and said he’d call me mañana with the carpenter’s figures, and that they were ready to begin work. Jueves turned to viernes and by Saturday I still had no word. That evening Dominique called with profuse apologies and said he’d meet me at the house at 11AM on Monday to start painting. No show. When he called that evening I told him I had gotten someone else to do the job.

The color is called "ghostly green" but that didn't dissuade me
from having five gallons mixed to paint the bed and bath rooms.

I had called the next guy on our list—we'll name him José. He was happy to work and I was happy to have him; he hadn’t had a job in over a week. He says he and his family were booted out of Florida last year—illegal immigrants. He doesn’t have any tools so he’s just doing the painting, and receiving the US equivalent of four dollars an hour, plus bus fare and his lunch. It’s going to end up costing a little more than the other guy’s estimate, but so far—after two days—I have no complaints and I don’t think he does either. 

This afternoon I told José about another job we would probably have for him later on. Along with his day’s pay I gave him an extra 100 pesos for his son’s birthday tomorrow, and he thanked me profusely, praising all my family to God. I don’t want to become his patrón—at least not yet—but will be glad to bequeath to him the paint roller and pan and adjustable extension I recently bought, and will definitely call him when we are ready for some more work.

Tomorrow I call a new carpenter, plus someone to install a new kitchen sink, and someone else to work on the salitre problem. José should be finished by the end of the week. Next come some deep cleaners and after that all the tile will be sanded and re-waxed. Then, we'll almost be ready to move in the first of June.

LIX. El Primer Mes, Parte 1

The First Month, Part 1

It's been a month since we took possession of our new house. We’re still happy with the purchase.

Our new electric meter with the corrugated
sleeve below which prevents a neighbor from
tapping into our juice. "Buscar" in the window
means "to look for".

That first week seems like an awfully long time ago. After paying a lot of money and signing a bunch of papers, we didn’t do much at all—for a couple of days— except mentally adjust to our new status as home owners. We made sure the electricity, water and phone accounts had been transferred and brought up to date, talked about our strategy for repair, remodeling and cleaning, and my organized wife began a list of recommended electricians, plumbers, floor tile installers, carpenters and handymen, etc. That was about it—Oh, as a first step toward decorating our new house, we treated ourselves to a framed photo by a local artist, a fine picture of a young boy helping to launch a globo, or hot air balloon. 

The next week I called a father and son who had received excellent reviews in the local gringo web board, and asked them to give us an estimate for the electrical and plumbing work. Their numbers looked good, they worked hard and—to my pretty ignorant eyes—effectively, and before the week was over had finished some needed upgrading that our inspector had recommended. 

Our monthly electrical bill will probably range between ten and twenty dollars. Some people can’t—or don’t want to—pay for the electricity they use; they try to cadge onto their neighbor’s supply by connecting a wire to the meter next door. I had an idea there was something hinky about our setup but was willing to let it go. The Jimenez guys, though, took the initiative to put a stop to this minor theft by slipping a sleeve on the main wire that runs into our house from the new meter they installed. They also did some rewiring, and replaced the main junction box with one that will handle a heavier load.

You see tinacos like this all over Mexico. The PVC pipe bottom
left was installed by the Jimenez's to replace a narrower pipe.

The water we get around here (for which we pay about four dollars a month) comes from the springs flowing out of the mountains at the edge of town. Most older homes have an underground cistern called an aljibe that holds the water piped in by the local utility. We don’t think our aljibe is functional; its access cover in the garage is cemented shut. Instead, our water goes into two holding tanks—tinacos—located fore and aft on the roof. The Jiminez hijo cleaned out both of the 1100 liter tanks, blew out the silt in some of the existing pipes and replaced others with bigger PVC pipes and valves to give us better water pressure. 

I really liked both Jimenez padre y hijo—friendly and no nonsense. My Spanish is still poor but has improved to the point where I was able both to make myself understood as well as ask enough questions to mostly follow what they were saying back to me. I think. And I appreciated that they liked our house.

One of two large--about 4 feet by 2 1/2  feet--oil paintings that came with our
house. We like the colors, form and style. The artist, David Leonardo, has 
become well-known in chi-chi San Miguel de Allende.

Meanwhile, my organized spouse and I had begun sorting through the stuff the previous owner had left behind. There are some things we really treasure, but many that we don’t want. We began posting the latter for sale in a local Facebook page. The first guys who came were Mexicanos who have a thrift shop a couple of blocks from where we live. They bought some nice chairs that weren't our style, a few paintings—one, a poor man’s Rousseau that had been hanging over the too big bed—and a lot of ceramic Catrina dolls. As they asked for prices, I reeled off cincuenta and cien pesos like an auctioneer. Over the next couple of days, a Canadian couple took the bed and a yoga enthusiast from California was happy to buy a slightly-too-garish for our taste mirror.

In the next part of this post I'll briefly describe my physical collapse and a less than felicitous encounter with another contractor...to be continued.

LVIII. Cuándo las Golondrinas Regresan a Ajijic

When the Swallows Return to Ajijic

Late yesterday afternoon while sipping margaritas on the balcony we noticed the swallows have returned. It's been at least November since we saw them last; they were ubiquitous in the summer and early fall. Their nests--stuck to the crease where walls meet eaves, up and down every sidewalk in el centro--were things to avoid. Now they've come back and we remind each other of their romantic image in that Capistrano song, admire the sleek and acrobatic flight, and try not to dwell too much on how the territorial adults, later joined by their numerous fledglings, will soon be swooping about our heads and dropping little turds all over the place.

LVII. En el Sendero Extraño y Peligroso a la Cascada Esmeralda

On the Strange and Dangerous Path to the Emerald Waterfall

That's mighty hot water spilling over La Cascada
Esmeralda. Photo courtesy of George Frazier

Every Tuesday and Friday a group of mostly gringos—both ex-pats and seasonal visitors to this area—meet at Dona’s Donuts on the carretera, or throughway, that bisects our little town. From there we walk or drive to a trailhead where we begin a 3-6 hour hike. There are usually at least two—often, three—levels to accommodate everyone from tenderfoot to experienced bushwhacker. This past Friday I joined a group of the latter types headed for Bosque de la Primavera, a large, semi-protected, pine and oak forest just past the western outskirts of Guadalajara. Among the trees, cerros and arroyos the area is full of the remains of past volcanic action—huge blocks of pumice, scattered chunks of obsidian, free-standing fossil fumaroles, lava plugs and lots of geothermal activity. We were there for a walk along Rio Caliente—"Hot River", and it lives up to its name—and thence on a hunt up to the source of one of its scalding tributaries not far above—often spoken of but seldom seen—La Cascada Esmeralda.

About the Ride to the Bosque

I met my main hiking buddies, George—an ex-newspaper columnist, -private eye, and -branding entrepreneur from Marin County—and Anthony—yoga instructor and former high school shop teacher from Texas and Florida—at the donut shop a few minutes before our 8AM departure. There was only one car for the ten of us who wanted in on this hike and we were ready to chuck it and wait for a later, lighter-weight local trip until Canadian Peter volunteered his newish SUV for the two hour drive to El Bosque. I traveled with him and three other Canadians all here to escape the brunt of Ontario’s winter. As usual with Canucks the talk at one time or another turned to their unfavorable exchange rate compared to the Yankee dollar…The ride was mostly past sugar cane fields being harvested and trucks way overloaded with same. It was a clear, warm day above the haze from an occasional field being burned to rid the cane of its leaves and bugs.

About Rio Caliente

After paying a nominal entry fee at a kind of Mexican hillbilly toll booth, we found the river flowing clear and mostly shallow over a pebbly bottom, and occasionally bunched into pools above makeshift rocky dams. You could tell by the low banks and youthful vegetation that in the rainy season the river must deepen and spread more widely. We began hiking under a mid-morning sun through a narrow valley with pine and bigleaf oak forests in the hills on either side, hardly any understory. Several times—in order to stay on the path—we had to hop across the stream on convenient rocks. The first time, I put my finger in the water to test how hot it was—“warm,” was what I called out to my companions. When we met a creek tumbling down to our river, steaming hot through a rocky arroyo, the beauty and odd confluence of natural forces made me laugh with happiness at being its witness.

About the Hot, Emerald Stream 

Our destination Friday was the source of a scalding hot tributary of Rio Caliente. This stream’s bed has a bountiful growth of emerald-green algae giving color to its clear water. And it IS hot. A cautionary sign at the trailhead claims the temperature reaches 80º C, more familiarly about 175 Fahrenheit. It wasn’t long before we came to the first crossing, a balancing act on six rocks zigzagging about eight feet to the opposite bank. Maximum depth here appeared to be around knee high. I think we were almost all wondering something along the lines of “What if I fall in? Will I parboil my huevos?” I tested the water with a quick finger poke. “It’s hot. But not too hot.” Meaning, we’ve all put our foot (and quickly withdrawn it) into a full bathtub that wasn’t any hotter than this; we wouldn’t die if we fell in…It’s a testament to our nimbleness that we all made it; possibly our foolhardiness that we even tried…A bit further on and we came to La Cascada Esmeralda—a stunning scene, and a new level of heat and challenge. Steam blowing off this beautiful green-tinted waterfall gave it an eerie and dangerous air. The arroyo had now closed down around the stream. From here on we’d have to climb up its steep walls to gain access to the source that our GPS told us was only a tantalizing 130 meters away.

About Being Stuck

Mis dos amigos (plus Artos, our lanky German friend who always wears a ceramic bear around his neck) wisely decided to bag it at this point. John, intrepid leader, gingerly skirted around the thin edge of the cauldron trying a low approach. The rest—including Lynn, only woman among us, game and fashionable in a black satin and rhinestone visor over Nieman Marcus sunglasses—opted to scramble about fifteen feet up a nearly vertical and overgrown embankment. It wasn't long though before we realized our way forward was irrefutably blocked. And then we saw John below us. He'd run out of room and was hand-over-hand up the vegetation on the sheer wall above an almost-literally-boiling pool of emerald water. John is a stout guy. We saw him grasp and pull out by the roots several small bushes as he scrambled for purchase. Russell, my Canuck seat mate—even more stout—reached down to grab hold of John’s hiking pole. I—smallest of the bunch—backed up Russell…We made it! John—legs scratched and bleeding—fell to the “trail” to catch his breath. I imagined the leg-shaking tension I would have felt in his place…Later, he and I compared notes on an alternate route that will allow us to reach our destination—perhaps next time.

About the Post-Hike Celebration

Not too far from where we left the Bosque on our way home there were an awfully lot of buses and trucks—18, 26, even 32 wheelers—traveling on the loud and air-polluted main road between Guadalajara and the large coastal city of Puerto Vallarta. They could get up to some pretty good speed running past an unbroken line of vividly painted concrete block and metal awninged tiendas, cantinas, repair shops and bodegas. Cafe customers there were close enough to the traffic to really feel the rapid displacement of air and vibration of engines grinding loudly behind their backs. Close enough—we were on the sidewalk, for crissake—to make it difficult to hear, let alone understand, the rapid fire patter of a restaurant owner trying to explain she doesn’t actually serve the food on the appetizing-looking poster displayed on her road-dusty wall, nor does she even have a license to sell cervezas...She solved the former problem by overwhelming us with information about what was on the menu until we ordered whatever (“Carne asada is usually good,” someone muttered). The more important legal issue was worked around in typical Mexican fashion by sending a girl to the little store next door for some liter bottles of Corona, Tecate, etc., and pouring the beer into ceramic mugs…Anthony—bless his heart—is always a soft touch and treated us to a couple of songs from a passing minstrel. We heard the guy's hoarse singing between the noise of passing trucks, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the tennis ball-sized growth on the side of his neck. Salud!

LVI. Nuestra Nueva Casa

Our New House

We're the liver-red casa on the left. The grillwork will be replaced by a wall
with glass brick windows changing the garage into an office/bedroom, maybe
performance space.

There were eight of us around the table yesterday at the notaria's office for all the papers we had to sign in order to gain the deed to our new home. The now-previous owner—elegant, frail and friendly—was there with una amiga. We were there with our lawyer. The realtors’ office was represented, and of course there was the notary himself, a dapper fellow. 

Most of the money had already changed hands—a one-way street from our bank to theirs. We were in and out in an hour, came home and took a nap, drank an extra margarita before dinner and retired early. We were beat. 

Breezeway from front door looking out to street, kitchen
window to right.

Today is another let-down day after the adrenalin rush of our transaction—culmination of weeks of way-out-of-my-comfort-zone financial dealings, plus all the 3AM paranoias about what could possibly go wrong. My therapist—I mean, sensible spouse—was talking me down to the very end.

I went over to the house this morning and found some cool things I hadn’t noticed before like the indirect lighting hidden all around the living room cornice to illuminate the brick-domed ceiling above. Wall sconces on dimmer switches are always a plus. And I hadn’t noticed before how fine the view is from the mirador to the mountains, and how much we can see of the sky. 

Dining room with kitchen entry at left guarded by large Virgin.

On the other hand, a cucaracha and I surprised each other in the closet off the patio, the one that also houses mops and garden tools; I couldn’t get the garage opener to work and quit trying after jumping back from the crackling sparks of an electrical short.

I accomplished my main goal, though, of watering all the plants that our erstwhile realtor had been neglecting, poking around in drawers (discovering some colorful ceramic plates I liked), and making mental notes of how to proceed with cleanup and maintenance.

The configuration of this house is interesting and unusual but not uncommon around here in the central area. Because the properties are pretty much cheek-by-jowl and the blocks

We'll add some of those colorful ceramic tiles to counter top
and replace shelves to right with cabinets.

are big squares, the property width is only about 20 feet, but it goes back well over a hundred. There’s a long breezeway entry walk, past the garage and kitchen and you enter a dining room and through that to a large living room with brick domed ceiling. There are octagonal skylights in each of the last three spaces.

Past the living room you enter a patio with many plants, a wall fountain, and steps leading up to what will be a second story mirador. Straight ahead you go through the patio to the bedroom with its bathroom and at the far wall of the bedroom is a big window and glass double doors onto a very narrow and plant-filled space that mainly is there to give the room more light. 

From the dining room looking into living room and past our friend Wayne into the patio. Refinishing the tile floors is one
of our first orders of business.

Patio with our detached bedroom straight ahead, steps to mirador on left, fountain on right.

Bedroom fireplace and its own narrow patio which is mostly there for the light. The house was designed by the previous
owner--a gringa who lived in Mexico for many years and eventually became a Mexican citizen; she accumulated several houses, much artwork, and still enjoys an idiosyncratic personality. The design is notable for having no windows to either side of the enclosed property. All light comes through skylights or from interior garden space.

LV. ¡Dinero—Ay, Caramba!

Money—Ay, Caramba!

In exactly two weeks the closing is scheduled for the house my wife and I are buying here in Mexico. That’s when we pay for the whole kit and caboodle, minus the 10% down payment we already wire transferred*. Our offer for the house was only accepted a little over three weeks ago, so it’s been a whirlwind trying to get our financial ducks in a row. 

Feathers are flying as I try to get our financial ducks in order.

Less than two weeks ago—following a back and forth exchange about where to send the request—I faxed a document asking that a relatively small—but crucial—amount of money be directly deposited from an AXA investment fund to the joint checking account my wife and I have at Bank of America. A few days later I was notified that AXA regulations would not let them accept as proof for direct deposit the faxed photocopy of our bank account’s voided check, which they had requested but that only had my wife’s name printed on it. Nor would they accept a PDF document I offered to email of our most recent bank statement that had both of our names, account number, bank logo, etc.

AXA would mail a check for the amount we were requesting to the address they had on file, which belongs to our younger daughter. Ten days ago, that’s what I told them to do. Our daughter had deposited other checks in our bank account, so we figured she could do the same with this one. However, the AXA check had not arrived as of last evening. Tonight I’ll get an email from her letting me know if anything came in Monday’s mail. Needless to say, we’ll be very happy to hear everything is OK with this penultimate piece of money movement.

If not, I reckon my first step will be to call AXA and ascertain when (if?) the check was mailed, and the soonest we could have it cancelled and another one Fed-Ex’d for next day delivery, if that’s possible; the AXA rep didn’t mention it as an alternative in the previous phone and email exchanges. (He did suggest, however, that before any money could be transferred out of my account I really should have been required to submit some other undoubtedly complicated and time-consuming document as a consequence of not being in the U.S.)

This is the way we want things to look.

Depending on the timing of a check’s delivery to our conscientious daughter, I might need to further—with that information in mind—contact the realty office to notify them that the final $10K or so will be available by such and such date, possibly after the scheduled closing. I hope that’s not the case because every time I speak with the business manager at the realty office she seems to feel that we are not putting serious effort into purchasing the house. (I think, though, that her suspicions might have been allayed now that she’s got a good chunk of our change in her office’s Mexico City bank*.)

In the meantime I’ll keep growing what remaining hair I have on my head since I seem to have made a de facto decision to not get it cut until I feel that all those financial ducks are in some sort of presentable file.

UPDATE: The check was received by our daughter, and that was a big Hooray! Contrary to our instructions, however, 20% was withheld for income tax. This morning I contacted the AXA functionary to ask about that and he said that disbursement of a Tax Sheltered Annuity, by federal regulation required such an amount to be withdrawn. Who knew? 

*The wire transfers went relatively smoothly from B of A to the Mexico City bank. As a consequence of our Luddism neither my wife nor I have one of those smart phones, nor are we even sure how to send and receive a text message. In order to send an online wire transfer of over $1,000 US, we needed to supply a verification code sent to a mobile device. Younger daughter was once again the middlewoman. As I was online to my bank, and daughter and I were long-distance connected by telephone, she read off the code that I'd had sent to her iPhone. I entered the code in the little box B of A supplied on my laptop screen, and presto-chango the virtual money flew into the ether and eventually to our realtor's account.