As we wended our way back to our little jungle paradise, Lisa and I were both supremely happy to be back in Mexico. The US is exhausting and insane. We can deal with our broken mini-split air conditioner and the assortment of challenges that show up daily in Mexico, better than the drama going on in Texas, Washington DC, Alaska and every corner of the country.
This week I went to a Tuesday-night sketching group that has been resurrected in Bacalar. It was so much fun. I’ve been watching portrait drawing on YouTube and itching to be challenged.
All sketches done with my non-dominant (left) hand. Timed 3 -15 min
When I travel, I like to carry an art journal. Sketching in the park, and a quick drawing of Lisa’s 90 year old Aunt Edna (who follows my blog) are lovely ways to remember a trip. I also like to doodle, in the airport, on a bus or wherever I get bored with scrolling.
Doodles are great for relaxation.Aunt Edna lives outside of Portland
Whenever we travel, my caffeine addicted wife has to find out where she can get her morning fix. Many hotels have those cute little coffee makers in the room but our basic digs in Portland did not.
Our coffee haunt in Portlandia.
So every morning she got up early to tootle across the street only to return with two fist fulls of large coffees for our morning pick-me-up. On our last morning, my lovely announced upon her return, “I think the barista was hitting on me,” That got my attention and of course I wanted all the deets.
The use of a tried and true pickup line gave it away. “Are you here alone?” We had a good laugh, noting that the wedding ring and two cups of coffee was not a deterrent. I have seen both men and women flirt and/or hit on her over the years. Mostly she is pretty oblivious to how hot she is, having been happily coupled for thirty years.
When we first moved onto our property.She hasn’t aged a bit.
In Austin a few days later we were meeting our niece for dinner. Lisa dropped me off in front of the restaurant and went to park the car. I sat at a tiny table next to two young men, MUCH younger than me. One of them struck up a conversation telling me that he liked my “look”. I didn’t realize that I had a look, but my orange, tiger patterned cane must be the newest fashion statement.
If you are an Instagramer you would know that the latest trend on social media is age disparate couples both homo and hetero. Some have 20-30 years between them. Lisa and I have twelve. Now I don’t really think the guy was hitting on me, but who knows. Maybe I also still have somethin going 😂 on.
Sometimes I don’t notice a pattern until it hits me in the head or kicks me in the butt. The pattern I saw during our recent visit to Portland, in the US Pacific Northwest was neither of those things, but a pleasant aha.
Flowers galore.
I like farmer’s markets! My favorite was in Amsterdam which was made all the better by the surprise of it. It was huge, blocks and blocks of vendors, happy people, delicious fragrances and flowers. There is nothing like a beautiful day to people watch. And we found it in Amsterdam.
Amsterdam Cuypt Market (stock photo)
A talented community group.
Portland did not disappoint. The day was stellar with music in the air, dogs to meet and food to sample. I love talking to the farmers who present their wares a bit anxiously, hoping to sell out. It makes paying ten dollars for a bag of granola almost worth it.
Freshly picked and organic.
In Amsterdam we pigged out on apple pie. In Portland it was blueberry scones. As our travels continue, we landed this week in Austin where it is currently 100 degrees (38). I’m not sure whose idea it was to go to Texas in August but I don’t think we’ll be hitting up any markets this weekend.
Portlanders are so artisticI guess we’re going to hell.Mobile art.
Farmer’s markets are such a sensory experience. Whether Amsterdam, Mexico City, Oaxaca, Northern California or Portland, Oregon, you will find me wandering and taking in the tastes and smells, tapping my toes to the music and appreciating local charm, just one of my favorite things.
After ten months of recovering from an accident where I broke my femur and had surgery, I get down quite often. I want to be able to walk without pain or limping. The other day, in a tearful fit of feeling sorry for myself, Lisa reminded me how far I’ve come and said, “you’re doing great, you’re still healing .”
My surgeon said it would take a year.
Lisa has my back which makes all the difference in my healing process. Her comment also reminded me of when my mother had my back growing up.
My unstoppable mother.
I missed a lot of school as a kid due to asthma. In those days there wasn’t really any treatment. One day I returned to second grade having forgotten to bring my rosary. Bless their hearts those nuns had a lot of rules. I believe my “fine” was a quarter (25 cents) and I refused to pay it. I was about eight or so with an inflated indignation and sense of fairness.
Summer vacation.
The end of the school year came and Sr Angela refused to give me my report card until I paid up. I went to my mother who marched with me to the principal’s office to let me plead my case. The teacher was called on the carpet and turned over my report card tout suite.
Such a good Catholic girl.
It wasn’t the last time my mom had my back. She bought me long white gloves and a rabbit fur cape for my junior prom. They were adornments that I didn’t know I needed. God knows where she got the money, but it was important to her. I was her only daughter and no one had done those things for her.
1969
After almost thirty-one years I have so much gratitude for my wife. Having her in my corner means the world to me. Also thanks Mom,
The Tortas are on our annual visit to Northern California. Our granddaughters turned seven and it was time for the pool party of the century.
The calm before the storm.Each with their own themed cake.
Gringo taco bar included.Grandma Lisa doing Spanish with the girls.
My poor daughter got sick and wasn’t able to attend the party. Instead, she ended up at minor emergency with early pneumonia and more antibiotics. And today we clean up.
One thing I like about living in Mexico is that I get to ignore most US holidays. I am not an expat that tries to recreate my origin country in Mexico. No backyard barbecue dressed in the american flag for us.
My MIL loves Christmas for the presents of course, so I don’t get to skate past that one. We do manage to keep the decorations and gift giving to a minimum.
Such was not the case at the Fourth of July bash that we attended with our kids in Northern California. The rocking event put on by their friends is in its twenty-third year. The party spills out from the garage, to the driveway and into the street. Food was catered, a disc jockey blasted and kids had much to entertain them.
My grandson was turning blue before his mom could drag him out of the dunk tank.USers are so subtle.One cranky child missing.
All in all a good time was had. The Tortas however were in bed before the fireworks 🎆 went off. Thank God for Uber.
None of us is getting any younger. I am seventy-three, and my spouse of thirty years is sixty-one. My mother-in-law who lives with us is eighty-one. Our dogs Stella (pug) and Luna (mix), whom we adore, both turn ten this year.
We had a friend Patty who fell three years ago Christmas. She hit her head and died. Her much older, cantankerous, whiskey guzzling, cigar smoking, big bellied husband, whom she cared for, is still alive today. None of us knows how much time we have.
Patty and her beloved Bonita.
There is a fine line between living in the moment and being prepared for the inevitable. Lisa and I have Wills and Powers of Attorney. But we also go to the gym most days and eat a lot of salads.
Not bad for seventy-three.
This past weekend, Stella quit eating. Now if you know anything about pugs, you know that they live to eat. About an hour before her daily meal time, she vehemently reminds us that she is starving and her demise is eminent. Seeing her turn and walk away from dinner had our anxiety up and Lisa frantically searching the internet for a possible explanation.
Our little blind pug.
When I was a kid, we had a dachshund name Fritz. Every summer he went camping with us. I’m not sure why Mom didn’t bring his usual wet food but he’d get dry food on the road. Inevitably he’d turn up his nose and refuse to eat. My mother’s attitude was quite different from ours. “When he’s hungry enough, he’ll eat”. She’d pick up the untouched food and present him with it the next mealtime. Of course she was right and eventually he ate.
Fritz looked quite similar to this handsome chap.
We’ll never know how long Stella would have held out. The conversation quickly turned to taking her to the vet. She had never skipped a meal in her life. With suggestions from the online world, we removed her slow-eating bowel and simplified her food. And of course she’s back enthusiastically snarfing down her dinner.
That princess has us wrapped around her paw. When she eventually crosses the rainbow bridge we will take it very hard. But for now she is doing quite well and so are we.
You better take notes, because this is going to be a wild ride.
When I was born, my birth certificate read Alice (after my grandmother) Ann Hoeft. I started school and my mother insisted that the nuns call me Alice Ann. It was the same with any other person I met. She corrected them if they called me Alice. I’m sure she loved the name, but it never felt like me.
When I married in 1982, my husband wanted me to take his last name, as women for years have been convinced, is in their best interest. Thus I became Alice Ann Fisher.
When I came out, in my forties, I had had enough and legally changed my name to Alex. I loved it. No more explaining or correcting. Thus, Alex A Fisher was born. It is the name I have used for thirty years and is on my passport, driver’s license, bank accounts and social security card, etc. Most people in my life have never heard this story and know me only as Alex.
A few weeks ago I applied for a birth certificate from the State of New Jersey. That’s when the fun began. I understand that I must explain my name changes from birth to present. I have the legal document that changed my name from Alice to Alex. But I didn’t have a marriage certificate to support changing my name to Fisher. No problemo, I spoke to a lovely woman at Travis County Clerk’s Office in Texas and she sent me an official copy with gold star and raised seal.
I submitted the marriage document and a slew of other records to prove my identity to VITAL RECORDS ONLINE, the agency that screens for the State of New Jersey, my birth state. I almost immediately received an email stating that a Marriage License is NOT a Marriage Certificate which is required.
I called Travis County and another lovely clerk informed me that the document they sent me is in fact a marriage certificate and the only thing they have. Reading the document closely one clearly sees that a union was performed, signed by a judge and certified by the State of Texas.
I stated all this to Vital Records and they began to sound more like Broken Records. Since they weren’t reading my emails, I tried to call per their friendly “if you have any questions please call” phone number. Yeah, that didn’t work. After kindly telling me that there was a thirty minute wait and press ‘1’ for this and ‘2’ for that, I gave up trying to talk to a human being.
A few days later, I got another email from Vital Records telling me that I can submit the Marriage License but it may be rejected by NJ and asking how I wanted to proceed. I didn’t see any other option so I told them to continue.
It’s hard to express my frustration without using a lot of colorful language. Not much disturbs my peace these days, but this week was a doozie. It will take awhile before I find out if I get my birth certificate and don’t even ask me how much it all cost.
In 1973 I came to Mexico to participate in a “junior year abroad” college program. I was twenty-one and knew nothing of Mexican history, culture or US/Mexico relations. So the morning I sat with three fellow students on the zocalo in Puebla, sipping cafe con leche and munching unfamiliar breakfast pastries remains fixed in my memory.
The portales in the center of Puebla.
We were newly arrived and felt very grown up experiencing a new and magical world. Across the street was a large park (zocalo) and on the other side of the square, a cathedral.
It was a beautiful day when suddenly everything changed.
From a distance we heard an unrecognizable sound approaching. It grew louder and turned into a ruckus. What at first appeared to be a parade, in actuality was an angry mob banging pots, chanting and dragging an effigy of Uncle Sam hanging by the neck. To say we were terrified is an understatement. The four of us took off running, zig-zagging down side streets and putting distance between us and the protesters. In retrospect we were not in any danger, but of course we didn’t know that.
I have no knowledge of what the protest was about. The US and Mexico have never been the best of friends. It was the time of Richard Nixon, Watergate and gas shortages in the US. I fully expected to return home to a revolution. We all know how that turned out.
Here I am again in Mexico reading about protests in the US and not able to participate. If we were there, Lisa would probably have to lock me in the bedroom to keep this 73 year old woman from joining in. My days of marching against the Vietnam war and participating in university sit-ins are long gone. I’m glad there are others to take up the gauntlet.
I can’t believe our country is again taking to the streets in protest. Past actions helped put an end to the Viet Nam war. This time it’s not just young people protesting. Hopefully the outcome will have results in the ballot box.
Anti-war protesters 1970s. I’m probably in that crowd somewhere
the adventures of dos tortas 
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