Back in Home Port

The Capt is home safe! He arrived by taxi from the bus station at almost midnight last night, after a week of struggle and strife on the road. Our VW Westfalia gave him no end of trouble in spite of a couple of days tinkering in a San Blas RV park—hemorrhaging oil, balking on hills and generally acting like it was suffering from a terminal disorder. So a trip that should have taken three days took six.

His problems would have been considerably worse if not for my beloved blogging buddies in Mazatlan. When he called to tell me he was limping up the toll road from San Blas, I emailed Nancy and Paul for help, and I couldn't have asked for a more helpful response. Having towed the van the last 100+ miles to Maz, the Capt was able to park the Westie at their place, until we can get back there with our pickup to tow it the rest of the way home. And Tufesa allowed him to travel with several large bags and bundles, at no extra charge (another reason we really like this bus company).

For your kindness and hospitality, thanks so much, Nancy and Paul.

And the good news just keeps coming. I had taken my Ford back to the shop three times trying to get my brake lights to function properly. This morning the Capt was able to fix it so I don't have to drive with the brake lights on... Now they only show up when I use the brake, like they're supposed to!

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates vision for tomorrow.


Melody Beattie

The drug made me do it

I can't say I wasn't warned. I looked up Lyrica, the drug I was prescribed to deal with the nerve pain from shingles, and found a common side effect to be "dizziness and somnolence." Add to that the worst dry eye ever. The dizziness went away after the first couple of days, but the somnolence continues.

All I really want to do is sleep. I get up, have coffee and breakfast, clean up the kitchen, take a nap. Check my email and read friends' blogs, make a to-do list, and take a nap. Have lunch and do the dishes, take a nap. Look at my to-do list, take a nap. The prescription indicates I should take Lyrica for three months, and I wonder how I'll manage to function in between all those naps! I've always been a nap fiend, but this is ridiculous!

I guess I just should be grateful I don't have a job to go to; I'd be a big disappointment to the boss.

News flash: The Capt is trying to get home from Barra de Navidad. The VW Westfalia developed a nasty oil-spewing habit just north of Puerto Vallarta, and our intrepid skipper, with the help of extra quarts of oil, limped to a deserted RV park in San Blas where he is attempting to fix it himself, having wisely brought his tool kit. The diagnosis is a busted gasket on the oil pump, which is unfortunately under the motor. Tune in for further developments.

Triumph of the hunter-gatherers

It was no doubt a crazy idea, but I decided while I was feeling the good effects of the anti-shingles drug regimen I would make a quick (five-hour) run up to AZ. My friend J needed to renew her visa at the border, she offered me a room at her mom's house in Tucson and she wanted to get back here before her husband arrived on their boat. I had a list of things I can't buy in Mexico like unsweetened peanut butter and coconut, miso, rice cakes, my favorite tea (Tazo black chai) and four months of mail that had accumulated at my AZ post office. Plus there were items my friends wanted. So off we went Saturday morning. It was a fun girl-time, yakking and soul-baring, thoroughly covering everything from how we manage depression to how we cook brown rice to make it fluffy. J is only slightly older than my son, and it was fun to pretend she's my grownup daughter and best friend.

J's real mom is a college prof and artist, and she was all aflutter getting ready to host a Sunday brunch, so we pitched in a bit and made a last-minute supply run, before starting in earnest on our lists. For maybe the first time ever, I found everything I wanted (and then some). We visited an Indian grocery where I bought garam masala and coconut powder for coconut curry, and we took time for an after-dark stroll through the grounds of the beautiful St. Mark's Episcopal Church, where desert landscaping has risen to a higher level of splendor. A revelation: I am learning to love cactus!

Another Tucson discovery was Sunflower Market (with three locations) where I can still afford to get whole grains, Whole Foods having given me a case of sticker shock last time I was there.

In my mail was a wonderful battery charger that will allow me to recharge my camera batteries instead of always having to go buy more AAs. My friend Sue in Oregon sent it, so I'd have the same charger she's had good luck with. Thanks so much, Sue!

So for us hunter-gatherers it was a triumphant though exhausting trip.

The drive back went fine except my Escort's brake lights won't go off, so it looks from behind like I've got the brakes on all the time. We pulled the fuse on them when we found the lightbulb was melting the lens on the top light. I was so happy to get home safely I almost melted with gratitude. I'll need to take it to the dealership, I've been advised, but in the meantime, I'm taking the rest of the day off.

Drug-induced euphoria

For those in Mexico who might be curious what drugs were prescribed for the shingles, they are Cicloferon from Pfizer (spray and tablets) which I suppose suppress the virus; Benerva, which is primarily Vitamin B1; and Lyrica from Pfizer, which is indicated for calming nerves. Interestingly, the Lyrica website warns that one side effect can be blisters.

So far what I've noticed is wooziness in the morning, tottering to the door to let the dogs out and trying to make a pot of coffee. That wore off in an hour. And then I was feeling euphoric because the blisters and muscles didn't hurt, I had some energy and I spent a couple of hours volunteering at the library where it seemed everyone I know was looking for books and had their own shingles tales.

Thanks, everyone who sent me good wishes. It worked!

Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda

Today I found out I have shingles.

I could have headed it off, if I had taken the time on one of our trips to Tucson, to locate a public health center or one of those mini-clinics at Walgreen's, and get a vaccination of Zostavax, like my sister did last summer. I thought of it every time we crossed the border over the last year, but we’ve always been very rushed and it slipped my mind. (I have a very slippery mind.) Zostavax has been recommended by the CDC for everyone over age 60 who has had chicken pox, and please, even if you hate needles—don't procrastinate as I did but get the shot. It will make the difference between normal life and an extended period of pain that has been described by some as "worse than childbirth."

Last June when La Gringa in Honduras had shingles, she felt "excruciating pain...like someone was jabbing me with a sharpened knitting needle." La Gringa's outbreak was on her head; her eyes were threatened, her face was swollen. I've been lucky, in comparison...I've been affected on the right leg, from the lower back and hip to the knee, and my biggest complaint has been sharp muscle spasms that have kept me awake for four nights straight.

Today I went to my friend Lolita in desperation. “Let’s go to Dr. Ocampo,” she suggested, “I need to see him anyway. I'll be your translator.” The nearly two hours we spent in his tiny waiting room were made less onerous by Lolita’s wacky stories about her late husband.

Early in their marriage, he wouldn’t eat anyone else’s cooking. No restaurants, no dining at the homes of friends...”I had to do something!” Lolita said. So on the sly she hired a maid, taught her everything she knew in the kitchen, and then she began making “mistakes” now and then in her own cooking. “Pretty soon,” she said, “he was telling me her cooking was better than mine. He never knew...”

Self-diagnosis is frowned upon, but I had done enough research online to be convinced that the ugly, spreading red blisters on my leg and muscle aches indicated shingles. Dr. Ocampo agreed and gave me a prescription for four meds: two for pain and sleep, and two to fight the virus (one a topical spray and the other a pill.) Most of these medicines are supposed to be taken for three months! He also wants me to take a blood test and said I should wash my hands frequently and try not to touch the blisters or I could spread them to other parts of the body. He also said I'm contagious, at least to anyone who hasn't had smallpox. I asked him about a preventive vaccination and he’d never heard of it.

I dropped Lolita off at her house, headed straight home, took the prescribed doses and fell into bed to enjoy the first deep sleep I’ve had in five days. That’s the first good news. Numero dos: I found that only ten percent of shingles sufferers get it again. Another article said I could still get the shot, once the blisters have healed, just in case I fall into that ten percent.

Should I send Dr. Ocampo the information about Zostavax? I don’t even know if it can be obtained in Mexico, but I found a Spanish article about it that I could print out and give him when I go back next week. I don't want to offend him, but if one future patient can be prevented from what La Gringa and I have experienced, I'll take a chance.

And now, time for another siesta. And please, think about getting that shot.

Messing with Mother Nature

It's been a long time since I did any mothering, but I haven't forgotten how.

Walking the dogs with a friend Friday evening, we passed a house that was locked up and vacant for the season. I heard an insistent cry in the patio, and looked through the iron gate to see a tiny kitten with a big voice. She looked about two weeks old, and when she came toward us she tottered as though she had just learned to walk. She came out to the street and was obviously all set to follow us, but we had to keep her away from my dogs, so I scooped her up.

I might have put her back down, tried to shoo her back into the patio and walked quickly away, except that I knew she was in danger. Right next door live a pair of Samoyeds notorious for attacking feral kittens and killing them. They corner a kitten, grab it and break its neck or spine while their owner stands there at the other end of the leash; maybe he thinks he’s improving the neighborhood by removing another feral feline. I saw his little Samoyed Death Squad in action once, and have heard of two other young cats they killed, one feral and the other a beloved pet. This baby, not yet able to run, wouldn't have had a chance if they went after her. So we took her home.

My next neighbor turned away when I passed her door with the kitten, as if to say, “Oh, here comes Bliss with another feral cat. When will she learn?” But later when I was attempting to feed it with the syringe from a Visine bottle, my neighbor turned up with a better syringe. I opened a can of tuna and used a bit of it diluted with warm water to make a tuna soup for our orphan. Probably half of it ended up on her fur, but she had a good appetite. I nicknamed her Tuna Breath and allowed her to clamber over me, marveling at her vigor and energy. I tucked her into bed on a towel in a cooler box, added Chica's old orangutan toy for company, and got up a couple of times in the night to feed her again.

By morning I had located a woman whose daughter fosters kittens, and they came by to pick her up, along with a couple of boxes of “cat milk” I had bought. That afternoon the new foster “moms” took the kitten to the vet for worming, and accepted another kitten waiting for fostering. So now Tuna Breath has a safe, temporary home, and a foster sibling to play and sleep with. Eventually, with luck, someone will adopt her and she will live the life of a domesticated cat.

A very different prospect than the one she was facing before I took that fated walk. I’ve been messing with Mother Nature again, and many would say I should have just let events take their course. Perhaps TB’s mother was moving the litter and was already on her way back with another infant, and TB became impatient. Like Angelina Jolie and Madonna, I may have disrupted a family in my need to play rescuer.

But if I had it to do over again, I’d do it again.

P.S. Speaking of mothers, I heard from mine today and was thrilled that she can talk on the phone again, walk without a walker, eat without assistance and meet her friends for lunch every day. Quite a change from last year.

Beyond Tacos and Quesadillas

This is a foodie post. Anyone not interested in food and cooking, come back in a day or so.

After three years in Mexico, I'm still mystified by much of what I see in restaurant menus and on grocery shelves. I was raised in South Texas, where you'd think I'd have plenty of exposure to South of the Border cuisine, but my mother never got beyond chili. So when Magdiel Lagunas, a blogger specializing in Mexican cuisine, emailed me wanting to exchange links, it looked like a good chance for enlightenment. Magdiel lives in Cuernavaca Morelos, 45 minutes from Mexco City.

His new blog, at Mexico Foods and More, offers authentic recipes, beginning with Caldo Tlalpeño, a chicken soup that uses the feet and tailbone (!), plus epazote, an herb that I've heard is good for beans but never tried. It's a carminative, Magdiel explains, so it reduces gas.

As a rank amateur timidly wading into the mysteries of Mexican cooking, I was inspired. No, I'm not going to rush out and buy chicken feet, but the Tlalpeño recipe can be adapted. On the same page were directions for making Cochinita Pibil, a slow-roasted pork dish from the Yucatan that looks appealing. His archives show more promising culinary adventures: mango bread, a Oaxacan version of pizza using those large, thick tortillas I've seen in stores, a mole recipe from Puebla. One humble homey recipe I thought I'd try today is Red Rice, considered a staple of Mexican meals.

Magdiel also gives an explanation of the many different kinds of breads you find in the panaderia. And he explains why traditional pastes (empanadas) are made with a rim around them, so when they were packed in a miner's lunch, the miner would have a "handle" to hold them with dirty hands. The "handle" would then be discarded.

Mexican Foods and More will be on my bloglist, so we can all check back now and then for ideas on what to do with those interesting peppers we found or that leftover chicken in the fridge. After all, anyone who uses habanero peppers in his guacamole is a spunky cook, in my book!

Letting it bleed

No, dear readers, I have not expired from the swine flu. I haven't even been exposed to it or seen anyone else sick with it. Here in San Carlos the "epidemic" has turned out to be a flop. So far, anyway.

I've been distracted from blogging by my interest and struggles in other forms of writing. Three weeks ago, I started a local writing group, the San Carlos Scribblers, with minimal expectations and a faint hope that it might inspire me to write more regularly, maybe even produce a body of work. You could call a blog a body of work, but I'm thinking of articles, essays, short fiction, maybe even a book project. Interesting how I always refer to a "book project" instead of simply "a book." Adding the word "project" helps hold off friends who demand to know when the book is going to press, while it's still an amorphous wisp of an idea in my head, easily blown away if I expose it too soon.

"It's never too late to be what you could have been." George Eliot

Last November I managed to get four chapters drafted, no more, after I signed up with NaNoWriMo, the annual November challenge to writers to produce complete 50,000-word short novels. My chapters, deemed too intensely personal, were so cleverly stashed in my laptop that now I can't find them. Never mind, I will try again. And now that there's a writers' group, I won't wait until November.

Something I realized today: I find myself dreading going to the writers' group as though it were a trip to the dentist or the immigration office--until I prepare something to read aloud. Then I can hardly wait. I've been bringing selections from the blog so far (which could be considered cheating) but I do work hard when we have our 30-minute timed writings. I love blogging, and take my posting seriously (you should see how many edits it goes through) and no doubt the blog will help provide material for the other work. The regular practice of writing every day is one of the hardest disciplines I've ever attempted, but when I stick to it, I get an immense satisfaction just from having tried, even if I'm not thrilled with the results.

The group has exceeded all expectations: we continue to have at least five members at every meeting, amazing when you consider that half of them at any given time are away on their boats. This means we're steadily getting fresh blood, an image that brings to mind Just Open a Vein, a collection of essays on writing edited by William Brohaugh. The title refers to writer Red Smith's brief advice: "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and just open a vein."

And since nowadays you might sit down to a computer instead, do try to keep the blood off the keyboard.