Vino Something You Don’t Know

I bit my lips to keep from laughing after the waiter told me the bottle of red wine he had just suggested was from – get this – Mexico. Poor guy, I thought. How deeply engrained his Mexican ethnocentrism must have been. I mean how could he, with a straight face, have just eschewed the French, Spanish, Chilean and Argentine offerings on the menu in favor of some libation borne from grapes that likely had grown on or near a cactus?

Kind sir, we are south of the border, not south of Bordeaux.

Needless to say, we went with a mid-range Argentine malbec – after thanking the waiter for his recommendation, of course. I didn’t want to seem rude, and fortunately was able to contain my snickering until after he was out of earshot.

We’ll give you the nod, Mexico, on tequila and some beer, but unless you are chucking in fresh fruit, orange peel and ice and calling it sangria, kindly keep your vino in the vat, señor.

A few nights later at another restaurant, the same thing happened – a waiter recommended another regional red, at which point Miranda and I tried to camouflage our laughter by feigning a cough. My thinking was that the terms “cabernet sauvignon” and “Mexicano” should never be combined in serious conversation. Such absurdities cause synapses to snap, like when one hears “Swiss courage” or “Canadian football.” Again, we politely passed on the waiter’s advice and ordered a Spanish tempranillo instead.

The third time we were steered toward a Mexican vintage, the suggestion came from our old friend Tony – the charming restaurateur/suspected crime boss whom we met during our first week here in Puebla, and whom I’ve mentioned a couple of times in previous postings.

Now, when an ordinary waiter recommends a Mexican red wine, you chuckle; when Tony Mena recommends a Mexican red wine, you order two bottles of the stuff and shut your freaking trap.

When the sample pour was finished, I gave it to Miranda to taste – giving me the appearance of a romantic and selfless man, when in reality I did it because I felt Miranda would be able to handle the stomach cramping better than I. She raised the glass and, just before taking her first sip, looked at me as if to say, “If I don’t make it back from this, I’ve always loved you. Bitch.”

With Tony standing over us, Miranda did the pre-requisite pre-sip swirl of the glass then stuck her nose into it to capture the fumes. (Miranda and I learned everything there is to know about wine from just a single viewing of Sideways.)

Then came the sip.

Miranda didn’t appear to suffer from any physical pain upon swallowing. On the contrary; she smiled and said “wow” as the cab sav slid down. Naturally I assumed she was just putting on airs – waiting until Tony Soprano left the table before running to the bathroom to purge herself. But when I reached for her glass to take a swig with the intent of applauding the wine in front of Tony, Miranda quickly pulled it away from me as if to say, “Get your own. Bitch.”

Actually, that is what she said. And if you had tasted what we drank that night, you would have said the same. It was one of the best bottles we had ever polished off – a mighty red kicking with pepper and sporting just enough fruit, with none of the excess residual sugars that make so many other inexpensive and mid-range wines way too sweet. (That’s right Yellow Tail, I’m talking to you.)

I felt the way the creature from Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham must have upon tasting for the first time what he was so certain would disgust him. “I DO like Mexican wine! I DO! I will drink it on a boat; I’ll get drunk on it and float. I will drink it in a box; forget about my vodka rocks!”

It was that good. Lucky shot, we thought. Surely this bottle was not representative of what most Mexican vineyards were corking up and shipping out. Surely Tony had picked the best of the best in an effort to impress us with what his countrymen were capable of.

The only way to find out for sure was for Miranda and me to drink a lot of national wine. And if anybody was up to the task of tackling bottle upon bottle of 30-proof pop, it was two ex-patriots who had been struggling for over a month to make friends, understand the local customs and muffle the local music. Mucho vino? Bring it.

Now, I’m not going to bore you with the fine details of our ensuing alcoholic exploration – mainly because I’ve already used up all the wine-related terms and adjectives I know – but let me just tell you that, over the past 2-3 weeks, we have yet to encounter a bottle of Mexican red that hasn’t tickled our palate pink.

While we are thrilled to have discovered such excellent and affordable wine in our new backyard, Miranda and I can’t for the life of us figure out why we have never seen such Mexican nectar in the States. I even called Whole Foods in Austin the other day, figuring they must have at least half a shelf dedicated to bottles from South of the Bordeaux; after all, I’ve gotten lost in their wine department before. (In my defense, Whole Foods really shouldn’t pour so liberally at free tasting stations.) But no, not even Whole Foods had any, though after hearing how excited I was on the phone, the wine man said he would look into ordering a few.

But that won’t really help, as most people would likely just walk by the Mexican bottles and laugh as Miranda and I did at the waiters in the two restaurants. What’s needed is marketing. Why in the hell is the fruit of the labor of such fantastic vintners – so close to the U.S. border – not being sipped and lauded all across our land? To date, the only easy way to obtain these too-well-kept secrets is to contact the wineries themselves, or to try one of the many online wine retailers that exist. Or you can come visit us (be sure to bring us some good cheese; the stuff that goes in quesadillas down here just doesn’t cut it).

I fear that Miranda and I will suffer serious withdrawal symptoms when we move back to the U.S. in July. The mere thought of heading to our local Austin wine supplier and seeing the shelves completely devoid of any product from Viños L.A. Cetto or Viños Pedro Domecq or Bodegas de Santo Tomás or, sniff, Monte Xanic is enough to make us consider postponing our return. Sadly, our Honda CR-V will simply be too full of suitcases, boxes and Dingo to fit any cases of wine to bring back. And even if we could squeeze in a case or two, knowing that there is such a finite number of bottles to enjoy would likely turn us into wine-misers, with Miranda and I closing ourselves and our precious bottles off from the world so that we won’t have to share. We might even turn on each other. (That’s turn on each other; not turn on each other.) I can just imagine one of us going so far as to arrange for the other to have an “accident” that would, in effect, double the amount of vino available to the survivor.

But for now, our marriage and lives are safe. Partaking in a prized vial of Mexican manna is as simple as moseying on down to the local grocery store or one of the dozens of restaurants within walking distance of our domicile.

So what if our best Mexican friends are bottles – is that so wrong? If it is, then Miranda and I don’t want to be right. We may still be struggling to adapt to the constant honking, the daredevil driving and the murderous music down here, but we have become quite cozy with several varietals from the nearby vines.

Don’t worry, we’ll be back. As good as it is, the wine isn’t quite enough to keep us from the country that’s filled with our friends and family. But when we do return, if you come over to visit us and begin to stare longingly at the bottles we've brought back, don’t be surprised if we try to avert your attention. And if you seem insistent, please don’t be insulted when we tell you to get your own.

Bitch.

A Fresh Perspective

I’m a bit of a perfectionist, thus it’s not uncommon for me to read each of my own blog pieces over and over and over again – pausing occasionally to email myself praise. In reading over some of my previous postings, however, I couldn’t help but notice a rather strong, almost unhealthy negative undertone emanating from in between the lines of playful parody and satire.

When adjusting to a new culture and customs, some frustration and critical commentary is only natural, but that doesn’t give me the right to lampoon an entire country and its people just because they seem to lack any sense of direction or driving rules. Or humor. Or hearing.

After my seventh or eighth reading of my entire blog repertoire, I started to feel ashamed of the negativity and the stereotyping so prominent in many of the pieces. I was writing like a reactionary American, not an open-minded world traveler.

But I aim to make amends. There’s a wonderful quote that I once heard or came up with myself: “You can change the world simply by changing your mind.” When things seem to suck, you need only to view what’s going on from a different perspective, such as that of a dying man or somebody who just got transferred to Newark, and soon the situations, sights and behaviors that were initially bothering you will start to seem trivial, even endearing.

Since altering my mindset – a process that has been aided by Vicodin and Valium – I’ve come to realize just how lucky Miranda and I are to have been given this once in a life-time experience in Puebla, Mexico, just how much beauty and mystique surrounds us, and just how limber I can be.

So, what I’d like to do now is go back over some of our previously cited Mexican struggles and annoyances, and highlight the brighter side of each.

The Crooked Cops. Yes, at first you will be miffed about being pulled over for doing nothing wrong and getting extorted by a fat man who smells of smoke and cilantro, but there are benefits to such a seemingly unjust and unsavory occurrence. For one, you’ll get to practice your Spanish with somebody new, perhaps even learn some new vocabulary – like the word for “bribe” or how to say “suspend your license.” In addition, while you are being escorted by police motorcycle to a clandestine ATM machine, you will get to see parts of the city that few tourists ever discover. Exposure to such exotic, off-the-beaten-path areas can be a godsend, especially if you happen to be a weapons collector or have always wanted to know how crystal meth is made.

The Death-Defying Drivers. While you as an American with license plates to match are getting pulled over for letting your tires revolve while accelerating, Mexican drivers who run through red lights and shopping centers are totally left alone. Unnerving initially, but actually quite enjoyable once you learn how to get out of the way. In America, you would typically have to go to a large stadium on a Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! and pay upwards of $50 to $75 to see a pick-up truck drive over another vehicle, but here in Puebla it’s free and occurs daily right outside your door. Another positive is that the total lack of road rules will likely discourage you from ever trying to drive again down here, which is good for the environment, and enables you to take the money you’d normally spend on gas and put it toward the police bribes you’ll be making to avoid a jaywalking ticket. And if you do decide to continue driving in Puebla, you can be assured that the constant tension and torsion of your body as you grip the wheel in terror will help you to develop well-defined arms, abs and gluteus muscles, thus making it easier to kick the shit out of any meth addicts who try to accost you while at the ATM.

The Bad, Blaring Music. True, I have ripped into and ridiculed Mexican music in several of my blog pieces; however, I have since learned to accept it and to appreciate what it has done for Miranda and me. If it weren’t for Mexican music, I would spend much more time outside of our apartment, where the vodka is a lot more expensive than the bottle in my freezer. Also, excess time outdoors would greatly limit the amount of blog writing I could get done, as well as put me at a much higher risk of being struck by a pick-up truck or getting extorted by Puebla’s finest. Furthermore, hearing how awful yet extremely popular the music and musicians are here has given Miranda and me the confidence to form a band of our own, where she plays the kazoo while I rap and smash bottles together. Our first single is currently number 2 on the Mexican Top 40, right behind a song by a mariachi band that specializes in Shaun Cassidy covers.

Our Struggle to Make Friends. Though I think the local people will really start to take to us after they read this posting and see how open I am becoming to their culture, Miranda and I remain relatively amigo-less in Puebla. But the truth is, we are quite fortunate that such is the case. If we were in Austin, where we are adored by so many, we would be hemorrhaging cash. Miranda would be buying dresses for all the cocktail parties we’d have to attend, and purchasing gifts for all the baby showers she has been invited to; and I would be spending a ton of money on Miranda to make up for coming home at 4 am when out with all my drinking buddies. But here in Puebla, our non-existent social life has left us with more than enough funds to get Miranda a top-of-the-line kazoo for the band, and to fly my shrink down every two weeks.


As you can see, by simply changing my perspective and my attitude, Puebla has completely transformed from being a hum-drum city full of annoyances to a place where I may very well not commit suicide or murder. In addition to all the positives I have pointed out in this piece, let me remind you also that the food here is quite good, the climate is quite nice, and, most importantly, it’s only a 20-minute ride to the airport.

A Brief Guide to Some of the Lesser-Known Mexican Fiestas

Since our move to Puebla, I’ve come to strongly respect Mexicans and their undying commitment and devotion to celebrating. These people have never been ones to let continuous economic struggles or political corruption hinder their natural born right to dance badly to horrific music on a very frequent basis.

There seems to be a major fiesta here every week or two, and a minor one every day or two. Being a heavily Catholic country, the vast majority of these Mexican fiestas feature thousands of Jesuses being waved around like so many giant foam fingers at a Packers game. It’s really quite invigorating… for the first two weeks you are here. After that, you find yourself vehemently honking at and cursing the alleged son of God for singlehandedly shutting down the street you need to turn left on to get to the liquor store, which, for Christ’s sake, is probably closed anyway.

I realize that all the Jewish whining and complaining in the world isn’t going to make these fiestas fade away. I’ve simply had to come to grips with the fact that Jesus and all the celebrated saints are much bigger than me, even though I’m pretty sure I could take them in a fight.

Once you stop trying to resist all the raucous religious fervor, Mexico’s fierce fiesta culture becomes quite endearing. You begin to honk less angrily when stuck in traffic caused by Jesus; you stop holding up Iron Maiden album covers to infuriate crowds; you even begin to look into what each fiesta is actually about so that you can better understand the culture and country in which you are immersed.

I’ve reached the latter level of self-actualization, and would like to share a bit about what I have learned. Rather than highlight the holidays with which you may already be familiar; here I describe some of the lesser-known though no-less important Mexican fiestas:


El Día del San Adolfo (“Saint Adolf’s Day”). Every February 6th, the Mexican people take time to honor San Adolfo – the patron saint of speed bumps. Candlelight tributes are held in the middle of highways and roads across the country, where people give thanks to Adolfo for protecting their children and goats from velocity-crazed tourists, as well as for turning valuable vehicles into scrap metal that can be used to help build more churches. Some citizens dress up like San Adolfo and walk around giving fatty snacks to children to teach them the value of slowing down. The most devout take things a step further by dressing up like actual speed bumps and lying across thoroughfares where Germans are known to drive.

La Semana de la Pelota (“Ball Week”). In Mexico, when the professional soccer season ends, the citizens of this country have to wait an entire week before the next season begins. La Semana de la Pelota was invented relatively recently to help fill that game-less gap and to dramatically reduce the male suicide rate during this very trying seven day period. All activities during this week are soccer related and include: tripping and pretending to be hurt until somebody pays attention to you; watching videos of the greatest near goals of all time; and contests to see if any living person can clearly define the rules for “offsides”. This fiesta is tons of fun for everybody – the young, the old, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers – as long as they have a penis.

El Cinco de Junio (“The 5th of June”). While nowhere near as famous as El Cinco de Mayo, El Cinco de Junio is an important day for the Mexican economy, as it is when the entire country resumes drinking tequila after a devastating one-month hangover from the stuff. On this day, people all over Mexico decorate their homes with lime wedges and show a strong communal spirit by licking salt off strangers. Babies who are born on this day are typically named after famous tequila brands or Lindsay Lohan.

El Día de la Santa Cecilia (“Saint Cecilia’s Day”). Saint Cecilia is the patron saint of musicians. Her day is celebrated every November 22nd, which is the day she died of complications brought on by listening to Mexican music. She achieved sainthood because she reportedly sang to God as she lay dying, when what she should have been doing was asking Him to give Mexico the same sense of rhythm and cadence that He gave Cuba and Brazil. Most Mexicans spend el Día de la Santa Cecilia dancing, singing and throwing kisses at Cecilia’s image. Most tourists in Mexico spend el Día de la Santa Cecilia drinking and throwing stones at dancing, singing Mexicans.

Las Posadas. This holiday – which runs from December 16th until December 24 – celebrates Mary and Joseph’s arduous search for shelter where Mary could give birth in Bethlehem. The reason it lasts nine days is that a very pregnant Mary was traveling by donkey, and most of the inns in Bethlehem did not allow pets or children. Mexican communities celebrate Las Posadas today by selecting a man and a woman to play the part of Mary and Joseph, and a local politician to play the part of donkey, all of whom move from house to house until they are finally welcomed by a family on December 24th. It is at this point that the entire neighborhood joyously sings carols and races to find Mary an epidural.

Drug-Free Dangers

With the recent increase in drug cartel-related violence throughout Mexico, a lot of our friends and family members have expressed concern for Miranda’s and my safety – particularly friends/family to whom we still owe money. I assure you that there is nothing to worry about. Puebla is pretty much out of the big drug loop, which is why there are so few really good parties around here. This city is perfectly content to leave the carjacking, machine-gunning and beheading to the narcotics ninjas in such cities as Juarez, Cuernavaca and Acapulco.

To help quell everyone’s concerns that Miranda and I might meet our maker at the hands of callous Mexican drug lords, I’ve decided to make a list of all the other ways that we are much more likely to die down here.

Based on rigorous research that I’ve conducted over the past two months, there is only a 0.8% chance that we will become victims of the Mexican drug war. Now, compare that miniscule number to the chances of us biting the dust via the following:

1) Grocery cart collision – 75% chance of death. Each day I step into Wal-Mart (I know, but it’s the only grocery store close to home), I take my life into my own hands. Mexicans, you see, have sincere problems with personal space and peripheral vision, but none with high speeds. Even if I’m in Wal-Mart with just one other shopper, that shopper will find a way to ram their cart into mine or my hind quarters. And when the store is crowded – which is almost always – I have about as much chance of not being struck by fast moving metal as I do of finding decent deli meat down here. The good news is that in Mexico there is specialty grocery shopping insurance I can purchase that will cover Miranda, my daughter and Dingo in the event that something tragic happens to me in the produce section.


2) Self-inflicted ear impalement – 68% chance of death. You have two choices when it comes to music here in Puebla: 1) Indescribably horrible Mexican music that shoots from speakers almost everywhere you go; or 2) A sharp stick that you can jam into your own ear to save yourself from choice #1. Miranda and I have gone with option 1 thus far, mainly because we want to stay alive long enough to visit the Mexican Riviera and Cabo while we’re down here. There have been some close calls, though – I have taken a sharp stick and raised it to my head a few times, only to be talked down by my darling wife who really loves beaches. It would be one thing if such loud, grating, harmony-less music were played in just bad bars and clubs; then we could avoid it. But it’s blasted in most restaurants, shopping centers, streets, neighbor’s homes, et. al. And it’s played especially loud in grocery stores, I guess to mask the sound of collision victims’ screams of pain.


3) Hit and run, and hit again – 57% chance of death. I’ve already commented on the dangers of driving here in Puebla. But at least when you are in a car, you have a layer of steel and some airbags to protect you. As a pedestrian in Puebla, all you have to protect you from the vehicular madness is good sense and God – thus, I’m fucked. The only reason I’ve been able to avoid being struck while crossing the street is that I wear earmuffs everywhere I go (to drown out the music), which causes cars to stop and stare instead of accelerate. Miranda has been lucky, too, as Mexican drivers aren’t used to seeing a woman in her 30s with an ass smaller than a mattress, and thus often brake to get a better look.


4) Heart a-taco – 52% chance of death. Unless you eat at one of Puebla’s fantastic Argentine steak restaurants, the beef in these parts is graded not “Prime” nor “A”, but rather “B”, “C-” and “Donkey”. Sure, you can avoid serious health issues by abstaining from beef while living here, but when you are freakishly starving and/or highly inebriated – or if you are Miranda – it’s very difficult to resist a beef taco from a street vendor. If you are unfortunate enough to get a tainted taco, the onset of toxicity is swift and excruciating; symptoms include everything you don’t want to read about if you are eating now. Best thing to do if you ingest one is to quickly put yourself out of your misery by walking across a busy street or going to the grocery store.


5) Tiger or lion mauling – 44% chance of death. There is a safari park called Africam just outside the city where you can drive your car through fields of giraffes, ostriches, rhinoceroses, gazelles, tigers and lions, among other animals. Miranda and I went last weekend (because we were bored, and because we heard that no music was played there), and we couldn’t believe how lax the park was about rolling up windows and staying in your vehicle at all times. There was a small sign here and there to that effect, but nothing like what you’d expect considering the fact that lions and tigers are blood-thirsty carnivores and Mexicans smell a lot like meat. Parents had kids hanging out of windows and standing up through sun-roofs. I was seriously concerned -- what if the blood of a mauled child got on our car and drew a tiger's attention to us?


6) Dingo mauling – 40% chance of death for Miranda; 0% chance of death for Greg. By moving into a fourth-floor apartment down here, we took away the backyard and climbing trees that our cat Dingo had become so accustomed to in Austin. We tried to accommodate his inner-savage by buying him a scratching post and some animal toys, but he just laughed at us, then proceeded to tear apart our two rented sofas over the next several weeks. Not content with shredding only vinyl, Dingo has started attacking Miranda’s legs whenever she walks across a room. It was kind of cute at first, but he has since started hitting bone, which is not cool because he could hurt his teeth. Miranda has become a nervous wreck, unsure if or when she’ll be attacked every time she gets out of bed or up from a chair. Why Dingo only tries to maul his mama and not me is a mystery, though it likely has to do with the fact that Miranda used to do the same thing to her mother and now karma is kicking in.


7) Death by landlord – 37% chance of death. When our landlord sees what Dingo has done to her two sofas, Miranda and I will likely be killed or, worse, placed in a room and forced to listen to the Wal-Mart soundtrack. Miranda thinks that our fate will be worse than that – she fears we might be forced to buy and take back to Austin the two destroyed pieces of poor quality furniture, which go with nothing in our house. But all hope is not lost. There is a good chance we will get off Scott free after we tell the landlord that one of the lions escaped from Africam, followed Miranda and her bag of beef tacos home, then went berserk over the awful music blaring in the street and proceeded to slash the couches, which the lion mistook for wildebeests.


8) Alcohol poisoning – 35% chance of death. Don’t judge. We need something to help us cope with the lethal dangers that lurk around every corner and supermarket. We tried yoga, but getting to the yoga studio requires us to cross two streets. We’re not ashamed to say that alcohol plays an essential role in our lives here in Puebla. We realize what we are doing to our livers, but we can live with that, at least until we can’t.


9) Starvation – 31% chance of death. All the money that Miranda and I spend on wine and vodka leaves us with little funds for food. If you truly are concerned for our safety and well-being, you should send us care packages containing healthy, non-perishable items such as cans of Amy’s organic soups and plane tickets back to Austin. DO NOT send money! We have no willpower; any cash we receive will likely just go towards opening our own liquor store, thus accelerating our untimely demise.


10) Old age – 29% chance of death. Don’t worry, we still plan on returning to the U.S. in July. However, with all the stressful situations and sounds we confront each day, Miranda and I are aging exceedingly pre-maturely. I have replaced my gym workouts with games of shuffleboard, and Miranda has replaced her Vogue with AARP magazine. And if the old age doesn’t get Miranda, there is a good chance she will fall from the bathroom sink that she hops up on to tweeze her gray hairs. That fall will likely cause her to break her hip, which invariably leads to incurable pneumonia in old people even though nobody knows why.


So, as you can see, the drug cartels present little danger to us. Going forward, whenever you see or read media coverage of Mexican gang violence and innocent people getting caught in their crossfire, don’t worry about Miranda and me. Rest assured that we will be securely holed up in our apartment dodging attack cats and drinking ourselves stupid.

Art and Rebellion

Few people know this about me, but I used to be a card-carrying member of the Democratic Socialists of America – back when I had long hair, poet glasses, and a spine. Mind you, the DSA is not the Socialist Party, but still, it plays pretty near the foul line in left field. Like full-on socialists, DSAers are very much about limiting corporate power; the big difference is that DSAers still want their 401 k plan and full medical and dental.

The point is I’ve always focused a little more on the “red” in “red, white and blue”. So naturally I was excited about visiting the house of artist Frida Kahlo (my favorite Marxist Mexican woman with a mustache), and the Mexican home of Leon Trotsky (my favorite Bolshevik revolutionary to be assassinated by an ice axe), during our recent visit to Mexico City. The two homes-cum-museums are just a few blocks away from one another in Coyoacán – a peaceful neighborhood in the south central region of the city. (There hasn’t been an ice axe attack reported there in over 70 years; property values have risen nicely.)

We started out at Frida’s house – where the incomparable artist was born and where she lived the majority of her life, painting away the pain of bones that shattered in a bus accident at the age of 18. Whenever she was not covering a canvas with graphic yet gorgeous depictions of her broken insides, she used it to portray the power and the plight of Mexican workers and indigenous peoples, or to obsess over her beloved, Diego Rivera, who, on any given day, gave her more artistic inspiration than most could ever hope for and more heartbreak than most could ever bear.

We stood next to the bed where Frida would lie motionless in traction one hour, and the next paint masterpieces – relying on a mirror above her while she lay supine. We stared at the desk upon which still lie the decaying tubes of paint that Diego would mix to immortalize his models before pouncing on them. We walked through perfectly maintained rooms where these two mad radical artists ate, slept, screwed, and screamed in oils and agony.

Miranda was so moved and impressed by Frida’s talent and mystique, she has since decided to take up either painting or photography, and to do everything in her power to grow a uni-brow. And me, I was so awed by Diego’s talent and mystique, I have since decided to do everything in my power to get Miranda to let me wear a smock and hang out with nude women.

As alluded to earlier, when not painting – and even while painting – Frida and Diego immersed themselves in progressive communist politics. Hence, when they found out that comrade Trotsky – a man they deeply respected and admired – was in exile from Stalinist Russia, they offered their home to him and his wife, Natalia. Naturally, Trotsky was extremely grateful for such hospitality, and to express his sincere gratitude he had an affair with Frida.

From Russia, with love.

The temptation of having Frida in the other room distracted poor Trotsky from his manifesto writings; thus he decided to rent his own house. The decision to move sat well with Trotsky’s wife, who had suspected that something was going on between her husband and Frida after noticing the beard-burn on Leon’s chest.

When you first step into the Trotsky house/museum, it’s shocking to see how modestly the man lived while in exile. I mean, this cat was the founder and former commander of the Red Army, and there he was in Mexico living in glorified servants’ quarters: A tiny kitchen with very basic utensils; a bathroom that doubled as a clothes closet; a drab bedroom practically devoid of natural light; and a small study.

Ah, the study. The scene of the fatal blow. The place where a single swing of a pick-axe by an assassin – an avid supporter of Stalin – took a lethal chunk out of one of the most brilliant and fearless brains of the 20th century. It’s one thing to sit through a college lecture on Trotsky’s death; it’s quite another to stand in the very spot where the legendary Ruskie got lobotomized without the benefit of anesthesia.

It was all so sobering, and made me wish that Miranda and I had reversed the order of our house visits – to end with revolutionary art instead of a revolutionary’s murder. Nonetheless, I walked out of the Trotsky house feeling not leveled but lifted. We had just spent several hours with two heroes who dedicated their entire existence to revealing – each in their own way – as much truth and beauty as they possibly could; two people who lived extraordinarily authentic lives, defying conformity and convention until they reached the grave.

On the way to lunch, I thought back to my DSA days, back to when I was hell-bent on shaking shit up, railing against greed and injustice, and extending an arm to help the fallen stand. I remembered that I once swore I would use my pen (okay, my keyboard) to push limits and pierce souls, not to pander to corporate giants. While pondering all of this, I felt a fair amount of self-disgust over the compromising man I had become, and promised myself that I would get back to my pseudo-socialist, artistic roots. I could sense that Miranda had been moved as well; that she, too, after brushing against such creative and indefatigable icons, was ready to reinvent herself.

Of course, such momentous transformations don’t just happen overnight. It’s going to take some time for me to grow my hair out again and re-memorize quotes from Mao Tse-tung. But we are making small strides. Miranda has been reading fewer magazines, and her uni-brow is coming along beautifully. And me, well, I may not have pierced any souls with my words yet or conspired to take down any multinational goliaths, but I did win at Scrabble the other night and later used my corporate Amex card to pay for a non-business dinner.

The revolution, my friends, will not be televised.

No Friends in Low Places

People who have been regularly reading my blog – all 7 of you (or 2, if you exclude my blood relatives) – have expressed how envious they are of Miranda and me because of all the adventures we are having in Central Mexico. While we recognize how very fortunate we are for the opportunity to experience a whole new culture and ways of napping, I’ll have you know that it isn’t all fun in the sun down here.

Yes, we have great food. Yes, the weather is fantastic. Yes, the cost of living is low. Yes, we have a great apartment. Yes, we are in relatively close proximity to several fantastic cities and beaches.

Yes, I can see now why you are all envious of us.

However, those of you with schadenfreude tendencies will be thrilled to know that Miranda and I are, indeed, struggling – particularly in one key area: Making friends.

I know, it’s hard to believe. I mean, with my scathing atheism in this mega-Catholic metropolis, and Miranda’s unsurpassed ability to say nothing to locals, you’d think we’d be the tostada of the town by now.

True, we did befriend Tony – the possible mafia guy from 8 blog posts ago – but he is so busy running his restaurant, traveling, and shattering knee caps that we rarely get to spend any quality time with him and his wife.

We are not asking for pity; we are merely asking you to come visit and tell us how much you like us.

It’s gotten so bad that we have even tried befriending Germans. There are plenty of them down here, as Puebla is the location of Volkswagon’s North American headquarters. No scheiss. In fact, there is a German man and his Thai wife who live on the same floor as us. Upon learning this a few weeks ago, Miranda prepared a very thoughtful gift basket containing some good beer and some ingredients for Thai cooking, and left it outside their front door with a note attached saying “Welcome, from 401” (our apartment number). Well, the next day the gift basket was gone, and we haven’t seen or heard from them since. We have heard them – rushing into the elevator, probably with their fingers crossed hoping they can make their escape without having to endure any violent hug attacks from overzealous Americans.

The whole neighbor incident really irked Miranda, who, in a fit of frustration, uttered a few anti-Teutonic epithets in the privacy of our apartment. I told her that I understood her anger, but that it isn’t right to denounce an entire ethnicity or nationality based on one or two negative personal experiences. I didn’t want to sound too strict or preachy, but I explained how there are only two things I cannot abide by in life: 1) people who are intolerant of other cultures; and 2) Belgians.

Our lack of local cronies is all the more puzzling because, generally speaking, Mexicans are easy-going, social creatures with little animosity toward gringos. The truth is, I have no difficulty striking up conversations with cabbies, waiters, shopkeepers and hotel personnel, but for some odd reason have had little luck sparking discourse with people who aren’t paid to talk to me. I’m not saying that everyone I meet should adore me, but I had assumed that my drunken rapping alone would be a big draw.

Miranda has become friendly with several colleagues from work, but nobody from there has invited us to any dinners or weddings, tried to borrow any money or power tools from us, or severely pissed us off, thus really can’t be considered friends.

I guess it isn’t a total shock that we remain amigo-less in Mexico. After all, I spend every weekday working alone from home in my pajamas. The only social activity I engage in are conversations with a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Vladimir Nabokov that I placed near my writing desk. Add to that the fact that Miranda hasn’t had time to master Spanish and refuses to befriend any woman who doesn’t own a decent pair of designer jeans, and I guess it’s easy to see why we’ve yet to host any dinner parties.

I should point out that we have had some near misses with making friends, but are usually foiled by geography. For instance, during a recent trip to Mexico City, we met a young American couple – vacationing USC medical students – who were staying in the same guest house as we were. I typically don’t connect strongly with people in their early-to- mid 20s, mainly because I can’t keep up with the text messaging, but these guys were very bright, well traveled and, most importantly, they talked to us. But, inevitably, they had to head back to Southern Cal – despite our attempts to persuade them to drop out of med school and hang out. Thus, our amistad never had a chance to bloom. As we parted ways, I held a loose fist to my ear and whispered, “Call me”.

We won’t give up on the quest to make real friends who live real close. In the meantime, Miranda and I will continue to be each other’s best and only friend. We’ll continue to invite one another to dinners. We’ll continue to borrow money and power tools from one another. We most certainly will continue to piss each other off.

And as anxious as we are to form lasting bonds with new and interesting people, we both know deep down that nobody we meet will be able to compare to the best friend each of us already has. Especially if they are German.

Mexican't

What do you get when you cross an Australian with an Indonesian?

Apparently, a Mexican. At least in Miranda’s case.

Despite having an Aussie papa and a Sumatran mama, Miranda looks more like she hails from Baja than from Brisbane or Bengkulu. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, in America, she is often able to use her Mexican complexion to her advantage. For instance, she frequently receives preferential treatment – e.g., faster service, fewer hairs in her refried beans – when drunk-dining at Taco Cabana. And back in 1993, Miranda was able to get accepted to the rather elite Trinity University because the theater department was putting on a production of “West Side Story” and needed an understudy for the role of Maria. (I realize that Puerto Rico and Mexico are different countries, but not to Americans.)

The problem is that when you live in Mexico and you look Mexican, people tend to address you rapidly in Spanish. Worse, they expect you to respond in kind, unless you are hearing impaired, mentally handicapped or a professional soccer player. Well, the locals know that Miranda can hear just fine because she’s constantly covering her ears when Mexican music is playing. And they know she’s not a pro soccer player because she has no Adam’s apple, plus they can see that her freakishly long second toe would preclude her from comfortably wearing cleats.

Thus, in the eyes of Mexicans, Miranda – a highly cultured world traveler with a Master’s Degree – is a little “special.”

Miranda’s current inability to speak Spanish has nothing to do with aptitude and everything to do with circumstances and time. She is certainly smart enough to learn the language, but she has been working long days at a furniture factory where the people with whom she interacts on a daily basis speak English. She then comes home – too tired to study – to an American husband with whom she is accustomed to speaking English. Thus, she has neither the free time (the few spare hours she has are spent wondering why she ever left Austin) nor the necessity to excel in Español.

And the truth is, I don’t really push her to learn, as I benefit somewhat from her mono-lingualism (ok, she can speak Indonesian). When waiters or retail salespeople or building tenants here in Puebla begin speaking to the very local-looking Miranda and see how she simply smiles and looks for me to step in and respond, they assume I am a saint – a compassionate man who has dedicated his life to assisting the developmentally challenged.

In addition to Miranda’s lack of Spanish earning me respect and admiration among the Poblano populace, it enables me to converse in front of her without her understanding that I’m just as obnoxious in my second language as I am in English. Yes, she probably suspects that such is the case, but without being able to discern exactly what I’m saying when I speak Spanish, for all she knows I might be coming off as a likeable, well-adjusted man to the Mexicans.

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. Lately, Miranda has been picking up on some key verbs, nouns and modifiers when others and I are engaged in Spanish discourse. I’ve noticed she has started laughing right on cue when an amusing anecdote is told, and nodding her head in agreement when the conversation calls for such action. The other day she even rolled her eyes when I made a corny joke in Spanish. She is on to me, and her growing comprehension has become a big concern.

Fortunately, however, she still struggles to put the words she’s beginning to recognize into any kind of fluid order when trying to speak. So, the Mexican misperception of me as a humble Samaritan who delights in helping people with cognitive disorders is still intact.

Now, if I can just find a good hiding spot for the Spanish grammar books I brought to Puebla, and pick up the pace when speaking with locals, there is a good chance that Miranda will remain that “special” girl I married.